Eternal (13 page)

He seized the toggle knob in both his big hands and pulled with all his might but the door did not give. “It’s stuck,” he repeated. “Reckon it’s locked?”

“Probably. I…the real estate agent hasn’t given us all the keys yet.”

Finally, he gave up.

Relief crashed over me like a wave and I resisted the strong urge to sigh.

“Maybe it’s swollen because of the rain last night.” He examined the fit of the door against the frame. “It doesn’t look as if there’s a reason it should be stuck though. Too bad you don’t have key. I’d like to know what’s up there.”

“Me, too,” I said, but I knew exactly why that door wouldn’t open.

Jeremiah didn’t want Waylon in the attic either.

Waylon gave up on the door and pushed his hands into his jeans pockets. “Where’s the bloodstain on the floor you told us about at school?”

“In here.” I motioned him into my room.

He followed me and gaped at the massive furniture. “This is your room?”

“Not too shabby, is it?”

“Not at all.” He crossed the floor and ran his fingertips along the solid wood of my big tester bed, scrutinizing the piece with his eye for antiques.

I squatted and then pulled the braided rug back to reveal the bloodstain. Again, images assailed me and, trying to dispel them, I blinked rapidly. My pulse rioted as relentless visions of soldiers in agony forced me to thrust the rug aside. I crab walked back from the bloodstain and pushed myself up. But when I stood, my head swam. Blackness washed before my eyes. My knees gave and I collapsed on the edge of the bed. Nausea welled. I swallowed against the burning bile in my throat.

“Are you all right?” Waylon asked.

“Fine,” I muttered and pressed my cool palm to my forehead to still my roiling stomach. “I must have stood up too fast.”

Concern shone in his eyes. “Your face is awfully pale.”

I took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Maybe it was the sight of blood.”
Please don’t ask too many questions.

He watched me for a second as if to make certain I wasn’t about to pass out on him and then he kneeled to examine the bloodstain for himself. A sense of awe swept over his features that didn’t surprise me. Even without the benefit of my psychic sense, I would have known Waylon knew exactly what those boys and men had suffered at the hands of nineteenth century doctors.

He looked at me over his shoulder. “As much as I enjoy reenacting, this is the kind of thing that brings it all home to me, that makes it real. It’s one thing to dress up in a replica uniform and brave the weather while you camp. It’s another thing to have actually lived through what those guys did.” He shook his head in dismay.

I gestured toward the window where bright, warming sunlight streamed in. “They must have performed the surgeries in front of that window because of the light.”

Waylon’s gaze shot to the window and then back at me. His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That’s pretty perceptive of you,” he said. “At Carnton they operated near a window so they’d have a place to toss out the severed arms and legs.”

I shuddered and pushed down more threatening images.

“Legend there says they were piled as high as the second story window but I doubt that’s true,” Waylon continued.

Severed arms and legs?

I gulped.

“Where is Carnton?” I had to change the subject before a full blown panic attack set in.

“The McGavock house in Franklin where many of the wounded were taken after the battle.” Waylon stood. “You wouldn’t know it now but it was a hay barn for a long time in the early twentieth century. So was Rattle and Snap, the mansion across the street.”

My mouth fell open in shock. “A hay barn?” I had seen the grand plantation house across the street. Situated on the rise of a rolling hill, it stood magnificent with its majestic columns and sprawling grounds. I couldn’t imagine anyone would have ever let such a proud, old house fall into such disrepair, much less use it as a barn.

Waylon nodded. “My grandfather remembers seeing cows and horses stabled inside it and tobacco hanging to dry from the second story floor joists.”

I shook my head. “I can’t believe it.”

“Me either.” He surveyed the architecture of my room. “That’s what’s so fascinating about this house. It’s as close to the same as it was during the war you’ll find around here.”

“There’s nothing like this in Atlanta,” I said.

“That’s because Sherman destroyed it. Just like in
Gone with the Wind
.”

“Why’d the Yankees leave these houses?” I asked.

“This area was behind Union lines for most of the war. Even the Yankees wanted a nice place to stay.” Waylon’s bright smile was infectious. “In Atlanta, the army was just storming through on their way to other places, and burning the houses was Sherman’s way of trying to turn the people against the Confederate government.”

“So,” I began. “When you reenact, are you always a Confederate?”

“No,” he responded quickly. “It doesn’t really work that way. Sometimes we’re Union and sometimes Confederate. It usually depends on what the place where we’re reenacting has a need for. Or what gear you have. I’ve even been a doctor and a litter bearer. To me, it’s all about honoring both sides and bringing that part of history to life for people who want to learn about it.”

I was surprised. Admittedly, I’d previously thought reenactors were weirdoes who couldn’t let go of the past, but I wasn’t about to share that opinion with Waylon.

And yet, what would Jeremiah think if I donned one of those Southern Belle dresses with a hoop skirt?

Waylon’s eyes brightened. “Hey, is that the same bed the youngest Ransom boy died in?”

My heart twisted. I shot a brief glance at the center of my hastily made bed, at the spot where I’d slept the night before—the same spot where Jeremiah’s life had slipped away. “Yes.” I heard my voice as if it belonged to someone else. And then, in an attempt to sound less knowledgeable, I added, “At least it looks like the one pictured in the magazine.”

Waylon had moved to the corner of the bed where he wrapped his fingers around one of the thick bed posts. “Doesn’t it give you the creeps, sleeping where he died?”

No. It did not bother me at all. But I didn’t admit that. Instead, I smiled and said, “I’m sure the mattress has been changed since then.”

This was quickly becoming too uncomfortable. I didn’t know how long I could continue to act as if I was in the dark about Jeremiah. I stood. “Did you bring your metal detector?” I sounded overanxious.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s in the truck. Want to see what we can dig up?”

I started toward my bedroom door and was relieved when he followed me down the stairs and back outdoors to where his truck was parked. He lifted a shovel out of the truck bed and then handed it to me.

Gripping the thick wooden handle, I pushed the point of the spade into the pea gravel driveway while Waylon grabbed his metal detector out of the back of his truck. I knew little about metal detecting equipment but from the looks of all the bells and whistles on his, it appeared he was more than a casual enthusiast.

He twisted a couple of dials and then fit the accompanying pair of headphones on over his ball cap. “You ready to hunt for buried treasure?”

I smiled.

“I’ve found all sorts of things with this,” he said, hefting it. “Buttons, belt buckles, bullets. I even found a Civil War pistol once near the Carter house but I donated it to the museum.”

“You donated it?” I asked, perplexed. “Why didn’t you keep it?”

“I couldn’t have kept something like that in good conscience. What good would it do sitting on my shelf at home when thousands of people could appreciate it in a museum?”

My insides warmed at his honesty. Waylon was the sort of guy who’d make a good boyfriend. He’d ignored Ella’s silliness with grace. He hadn’t once been condescending because he knew more about the Civil War and the architecture of my house than I did. He’d been concerned about me when I had nearly fainted at the sight of that bloodstain, and now I discovered he was the type who generously donated artifacts to museums so they could be enjoyed by all.

“Where do you think the best place to start would be?” I sincerely hoped he would find something cool that I could persuade him to keep for himself.

He scanned the grounds. “Want to start in the side yard?”

Shouldering the heavy shovel like a soldier with a rifle, I marched around the side of the house alongside Waylon.

“There would have been soldiers camped all around these grounds.” He adjusted the knobs on the shaft of his metal detector before he swung the coil at the bottom easily, just inches over the grass.

I blinked, seeing through the veil of time to where beleaguered men and boys huddled around campfires and hastily thrown up tents.

Waylon gestured to where one of the massive whitewashed chimneys rose against the side of the house. “You can lean the shovel against the bricks,” he said, ripping me out of my trance. “It may be awhile before we find something big enough to warrant digging a hole in your yard.”

His easy smile was meant to be friendly and flirtatious but it gave me a sick feeling in my gut. I wondered why I was fighting so hard to not like him.

Who was I fooling? I knew why.

Jeremiah Ransom.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with Waylon. Nothing at all. Any girl would be thrilled to have him as a boyfriend.

Not me.

Jeremiah enthralled me with the mystery of his existence and the way being near him made me shiver all over. By the fact he was something—
someone
—who belonged only to me.

And even though I barely knew him, I couldn’t imagine my heart belonging to anyone but him.

Waylon wagged the metal detector as he moved from the side of the house toward an old stone well that stood at the far edge of the side yard. He stopped and wielded the detector over a small area near the well. “There’s something here.” Bright eyes locked with mine. “Bring the shovel.”

He discarded the headphones and metal detector and I passed him the shovel. Gripping the handle, he dug the point into the earth and then planted a foot on the metal. I stood back as he scooped out a shovel full of the ground. He dumped it and then sifted through it. “Look!” he exclaimed proudly as he held up something that resembled an oatmeal-colored pebble.

I stared at the object. “What is it?”

He shot to his feet and grabbed my hand so that my palm was open. My breath caught at the sudden motion, at the feel of warm, human flesh against mine. The stunning realization that the last touch I felt had been from a ghost struck me like a bolt of lightning. Still, Waylon’s touch couldn’t compare with the subtle intensity of Jeremiah’s energy.

“It’s a minie ball,” he told me, fingering it.

I looked up at him and when our eyes met, he slowly withdrew his hand from mine as if he’d just realized the innocent but awkward intimacy between us. He cleared his throat.

“A bullet,” he explained. With care, he pointed out the tip and then weather-worn rings at the bottom of it with his index finger. “See? This one was never fired.”

“I would have thought this was a rock,” I told him as I thumbed some of the dirt off. “It’s heavy.”

“Yes.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “They were made of solid lead. When one hit you, the shape caused it to shatter the bone. These little bullets did a lot more damage than you’d think.” His gaze flicked up toward my window. “Hench the bloodstain on your floor.”

My stomach tightened as I stared down at the bullet in my hand. Had one just like this hit Jeremiah? The thrill of the find faded and goosebumps broke out down my arms and legs. “Amazing that something so tiny and so seemingly insignificant could…could kill a person.”

“Often, it wasn’t the bullet but disease, blood poisoning and gangrene that killed them.”

Not Jeremiah. A bullet had killed him. I inhaled, imagined him feverishly unconscious and dying in my bed with his head swollen and bandaged. No signs of his injuries remained. No wounds.

No scars like mine.

In fact, he looked perfect.

Waylon removed his cap and raked his fingers through his blond hair. “Do you realize we’re the first people to hold this bullet since a soldier loaded it in his rifle during the Civil War?”

“Staggering,” I murmured, offering the bullet to Waylon.

He put his cap back on. “No, you keep it.” And then he closed his hand around my loosely clenched fist and pushed it gently back toward me.

Just like the moment last night with Jeremiah when I’d sensed the sudden transformation in our relationship, I recognized a similar change with Waylon now. But this time, wonder and promise of the future didn’t sweep me away. This time, sickening dread filled the pit of my stomach.

“Thanks.” Withdrawing my hand, I shoved the bullet into my jeans pocket.

“Would you mind showing me the cemetery?” he asked, his voice a little lower than usual.

“Sure.” I tried my best to sound nonchalant as I hooked my thumbs into my front pockets. “This way.” The weight of the bullet pressed against my thigh as we trekked toward the graveyard.

I tramped through the leaves, aware that we’d left the metal detector and shovel behind. I was right. Something definitely had changed and awareness flooded me with every fresh breath.

Step by step, Waylon caught up with me until he walked at my side, mere inches from me. Dry leaves crunched under my steps and, in contrast to the silence, the sound echoed in my head.

“Wren?”

Waylon’s serious tone caused my heart to skip a beat. “Yes?”

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to get mad?”

I swallowed. “Why would I get mad at you?” I tried to sound light and uncaring. I failed. Miserably.

“Not at me,” he said. “At Laura.”

My insides clenched. Laura was the only girl I’d met in Columbia I thought might really be someone in whom I could confide—someone I could eventually tell about Jeremiah. The idea she’d done or said something bad enough to worry Waylon into prefacing a question with a promise, shook me to the core. “Laura?” My voice cracked on the second syllable.