A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series (4 page)

Gerta drifted toward the fireplace and the cot where Joe lay in restless slumber. She placed her hand against his skin. “He is too weak to move. The fever is coming on him, I fear.”

With a swing of her arm, Beth pushed the iron bar holding the kettle over the open fire. “I’ll clean his wound as soon as the water boils and cools.”

Her grandmother said nothing as she laid strips of clean linen across Joe’s chest. Then: “You opened your package.”

Gerta’s voice dragged Beth’s attention back to the open bundle on the seat of her rocker where she had left it.

“Perhaps your mother forgot how much you despise sewing.”

Despite the lightness of her grandmother’s statement, Beth knew there was so much more to her hatred of sewing. The pieces of the pattern were already stitched together into blocks, ever-darkening triangles on a dark background. She’d flicked
through all of them and the directions printed in her mother’s neat, square handwriting.

“The last thing I tried to sew was the shirt for Leo.” The stack of quilt blocks stabbed against the deep-down hurt of losing the little boy. She fought the emotion and set the blocks aside, renewing her commitment to put the past behind her. No more tears, no more guilt.

“God will not be blamed,” Gerta said.

She jerked her head up, searching her grandmother’s face. Is that what her grandmother thought she was doing? “I didn’t see you attending service yesterday.” The accusation left her lips before she’d had a chance to think better of it.

Gerta’s sober expression never cracked. “It was not a good omission on my part, but Joe needed me here. And I think services would not have been much more than fear and talk. Not with the church so much closer to the mountains.”

Someone pounded on the door. Gerta’s gaze slid to Beth, then back to Joe before she stepped to the door. Beth wanted to call out to her grandmother and ask her to stop, her nerves drawn tight at the thought of what danger might be standing on the other side of the door.

Too late. Five Confederates, rumpled and ragged in their faded shirts and wool caps stood at the door, gaping at her, then at Gerta. The man in the forefront scratched at his chest with vigor. No doubt another louse infestation. It sickened her. These could be men who might have taken a shot at Jedidiah. Even killed him for all she knew, and the thought stirred her.

“Ma’am, we’ve come for a meal. If you’ve got anything to offer, we’d be grateful. Me and the boys are footsore and weary.”

Beth lunged forward, hand grasping the door and yanking it open even farther. “And killing those for whom we stand.”

“Beth.” Gerta’s hand on her sleeve became a supplication. Beth pressed her lips together to stop the trembling, the muscles in her back rigid with hot indignation.

“Meanin’ no harm, ma’am, but they shoot at us, too.”

“Of course we will feed you,” Gerta waved her arm to indicate the porch. “We have a wounded soldier now who requires rest. If you’ll take your leisure on the porch, we’ll bring you bread.”

“You tendin’ a Reb, ma’am?”

Gerta didn’t answer but shut the door and faced Beth. Hot disapproval sparked from her grandmother’s gaze. “They are hurting as much, if not more, than Jedidiah. You saw Joe’s condition, Elizabeth. He is underfed, weary; much of his trouble began with the condition he was in before he was shot. Would you turn away a man and have the same done to Jedidiah if he were needy?”

Shame burned Beth’s neck. Gerta didn’t wait for a reply and set about lifting loaves of bread, slicing tomatoes and the last of a smoked ham. “You must understand something, Beth. What the soldiers aren’t allowed to have, they will take. You see how desperate they are, and it is either surrender what we have to them or have them burn our house and the outbuildings in retribution. They could take revenge on us personally . . .”

Gerta’s hand stilled as she raised the knife to slice an onion, her words—and perhaps what she wasn’t saying—lodging deep in Beth’s understanding. She gathered the onions and butter and put them on a tray loaded with ham and bread, tomatoes and cucumbers.

“I’ll fetch water for them.”

“No need.” Gerta lifted the tray, her gaze centering on something over Beth’s shoulder. “Tend to Joe while I take care of these men.”

Steam did not billow from the pot as it once had, and Beth knew the water had cooled enough to begin work on Joe’s wound. She wiped perspiration from her brow with her sleeve and tied on a fresh apron before settling down in the chair beside Joe’s cot. Already her grandmother had come in a dozen times to assess what she was doing and check Joe’s temperature with the back of her hand.

Gerta gathered a yellow squash, the last of the morning’s produce, on her way back to the kitchen. She rubbed at the skin, sloughing off the fine fuzz. “Don’t forget to dab at the poultice until it loosens. Don’t try to rub it off or you’ll chafe the skin.”

Another knock on the door yanked Gerta’s attention back to the kitchen for the third time. It seemed the first group of hungry Rebels had shared their good fortune with their friends, bringing an influx of beggars to their door. Their bread supply had dwindled by half, and the produce was diminished to the one squash, a cucumber, and three tomatoes.

Joe moaned when Beth touched his bristled cheek. His skin was flushed from the creeping heat of fever. She used tepid water to bathe his forehead and arms, shuddering at the memory of the body lice that had clung to the clothes she had burned. Her grandmother had worked feverishly, bathing him in hot water and lye soap, scrubbing as hard as she dared, constantly throwing out bucket after bucket of dirty water.

Running a cloth along Joe’s arm, she talked to him as she’d seen her grandmother do so many times. Soothing subjects of the weather and the crops, of apple pie dripping with sweet, caramelized juice and peaches that leaked juice down the chin with one bite. When she finished bathing his skin, she began
dabbing at the poultice. Blood had mixed with the thick paste and crusted on the edges. With careful tugs and liberal dabs of the damp cloth, she worked the poultice loose. Every swipe of her rag revealed more of the wound. Her stomach clenched at the sight of the rounded, ragged flesh. She swallowed again and again, determined not to give in to nausea from the bile rising in her throat. She continued to talk, the distraction helping focus her on the task.

“How is he doing?”

Gerta’s question took her by surprise, her heart galloping with the unexpected interruption.

“Lost in your own little world?” Her grandmother’s finger traced the edges of the ragged flesh. “No sign of redness. I’ll do another poultice to be safe.”

Joe’s body jerked on the cot, and he gasped and opened his eyes wide. Gerta placed a hand on his chest, her expression tense, no doubt reminded of his frightful display the night before. Joe blinked again, his gaze unfocused. He turned his head from Gerta to Beth. His mouth opened, but no words came forth and his eyes closed again.

“He was probably a strong man at one time. The war has taken its toll on his body.” Gerta’s mouth became a firm line. “You’ll find that sick people often say things that don’t make sense. But sometimes it’s not the fever, sometimes it’s the deep-down fears of the unknown or of the future.”

Images of the days of her recovery came along with memories of the misery and helplessness she’d felt. The fear of a future alone because men seemed more interested in pitying her than loving her. What her grandmother said was true. She wondered if Gerta was preparing her for what would happen when and if the fever took hold of Joe, or just trying to jolt her somehow. Gerta’s expression revealed nothing. The woman’s aged hands moved slowly over Joe’s wound, probing gently.

“Might be a good idea to start more bread while I’m working here. If their appetites are any indication of what to expect, we’ll need every morsel.” Gerta paused and wiped her bloodied fingers on a linen. “Unless you need to rest.”

The statement lay between them like an unexploded shell. It always came back to her leg. Rest her leg. Don’t exert herself. Be careful. She feared falling, but she feared the perception that she was incapable even more. “I’ve rested all morning,” she snapped.

Sympathy stirred in Gerta’s expression.

“I’m quite capable, Grandmother.”

“It is not your capability I question.”

“I am not a child.”

Her grandmother’s eyebrows lowered and she straightened. “I have never treated you as such.”

She wanted to scoff. Her mother and father had treated her like a child. Always sending pitying looks her way, encouraging her to rest and get stronger. Not to blame herself. But at the intersection of life and love, she had careened down a path that detoured around both.

Gerta’s expression, her words, were not piercing or full of accusation, they were soft, laced with a sadness that had nothing to do with pity. Remorse made her change the subject. “Are you applying another poultice?”

“It will help draw out the infection and protect the wound.” Gerta’s eyes snapped to Beth’s. “But it has to be applied before it can work.”

They stood, gazes locked. Gerta issuing a challenge that had nothing to do with Joe’s wound. Beth pushed back a tendril of hair and tucked the wisp into her bun. She licked her lips and focused on Joe.

“I’ll make it up right away,” she turned to do so, feeling stripped by her grandmother’s insight.

“Not without God you’re not.”

Beth snapped upright. She opened her mouth to protest the accusation, but nothing came out. Gerta wasn’t listening anyway, shouldering by her en route to the kitchen.

She bit her tongue. It wasn’t like she was shunning God, but she couldn’t reconcile her injury—something done to save another—with God’s will. She pressed her hand to her leg. How many times had she asked God to heal her and make her whole? The bones in her foot were crushed, her ankle broken. The pain was constant and worsened when she exerted herself, but she hated feeling different. As her friends got married, she had to force a show of happiness. Pretend it didn’t matter that her future stretched out hollow and solitary.

Gerta returned long enough to pass her the poultice and give directions for its application. On one level, she listened closely to the careful directions, while her insides rolled and her conscience raged.

Another group of soldiers came by to beg a meal just after Beth finished applying the poultice to an increasingly restless Joe, pulled the rocker closer to the cot, and settled back. The aroma of mustard and onion drifted upward, strong, only slightly dulled by the bandage. She wrung a fresh cloth and sponged his skin, wondering, waiting for what would come next from the enemy who inhabited their town. A fierce hatred for the war choked her, and she closed her eyes to try to imagine the house full of sick, wounded men.

Joe moaned low in his throat and turned his head. She dabbed his forehead with the cooled water. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused. She leaned forward, and his eyes caught the motion and followed her movement, traced the lines of her face, his focus tighter.

“We just changed your bandage.”

His tongue darted out over his lower lip, then his top lip. His mouth worked, and she leaned closer.

“Hurts.”

The sound was that of an injured animal, pitiful, thin. “I’m sorry.” She placed her hand on his arm and tried a smile. “You’re starting into a fever. I’ll be here for you as much as I can.”

His chest hitched on a quick inhale. His lids slid down, hiding the green of his eyes. He gasped, held his breath, and exhaled.

“Joe?”

She slipped her hand down his arm, afraid of his vulnerability. His chest still rose and fell, but he’d slipped into unconsciousness. She set aside the rag, knowing there was little she could do for him. Her eyes skimmed his face, the hollows beneath his cheekbones. A handsome face. Despite the shell of a man that he’d become, she thought she could glimpse the youthful vigor he must have possessed at one time. Somewhere, deep in the South, he would have lived and worked and loved. A man. She glanced at the haversack in the corner, which held Joe’s personal belongings. Would she be forced to sort through the precious things to find evidence of a wife or sweetheart to whom she would write a letter of regret upon his death?

Please don’t let him die, too
.

Her hands shook at the thought. At her audacity to pray when she had given up on miracles. Beth picked up the brown-wrapped package and pulled back the paper to reveal the dark blocks her mother had so lovingly sewn. It had startled her to see the dark border her mother had used. Black. But the square in the center of the quilt block was a beautiful shade of bright yellow-orange. She ran her finger over the soft fabric, thinking of the blood she’d seen on her grandmother’s apron
from Joe’s wound. And the blood that surely ran from the men who would be injured. Or killed.

Raising the block to her cheek, she pressed the fabric close to her skin, fear gripping her tight. Things would never be the same.

G
roans. Horrible sounds, like an animal caught in a trap, desperate to be loose. Joe blinked, the white ceiling blinding to his tender eyes. He turned his head as another agonized cry rent the air and he saw a man, saw in hand, flies swarming despite the avid fanning of a young boy. Joe licked his lips and felt the rough skin and tasted the blood from a crack in his lower lip. He turned his head to the other side, where a man lay stretched, a rough bandage around his arm, soaked with blood. The flies were there too, buzzing, incessant, relentless in their mission
.