Northern Star (2 page)

The stranger’s chest, stripped of shirt and blood, seemed like only muscle pulled over bone with no softness. Though his face was a shadow, Perry wondered about his identity. He might be a poor Southern farm boy running away from more fighting, or maybe one of the many Northern spies infiltrating the South. Watching his life ebb, Perry concluded that it didn’t matter. Maybe Noma was right: Stubbornness and mercy were both her strengths and her curse. If this man died, she’d feel the pain of his loss without even knowing his name.

Noma shook her head as she leaned back from her patient.

“Without a fire it’s going to be hard keeping this fella alive.” She rubbed the small of her back and waddled to the far side of the loft. “I’m going to curl up and let this old body get a few hours’ sleep. Unless it stops raining, we ain’t going anywhere come morning.”

Perry noticed the first hint of daybreak. “I’ll sit by him awhile. You get some sleep.” She covered an already snoring Noma with their only blanket.

Slowly she crawled to the sleeping soldier, studying him closely. His hair grew lighter with the morning. Sunny blond strands covered his forehead and brushed his sleeping eyes. His jawline was strong and covered with sandy, short whiskers; his mouth was generous, relaxed in sleep. Gently Perry touched a curl hanging across his forehead. With a will of its own the curl wrapped around her finger, surprising her with its tender gesture.

In the early dawn light the sleeping man’s lips thinned, and his face contracted in pain. A sudden chill overtook him and he shook violently, as though the entire earth were unsteady beneath him. War raged within him, a war of life over death.

Sliding down beside him in the hay, Perry pressed against his body while pulling her large coat over them both in a tight cocoon. He was hard and muscular in her arms, but she felt death’s cold hands chilling him from within. Her body was all that warmed him.

His unharmed arm encircled her, pulling her closer to his lean frame. His fingers slid down her back, molding her close, as though he craved the feel of another human being in his last moments of life.

Perry knew she should pull away, but she couldn’t deny this man the comfort he desperately seemed to need. His fingers moved slowly along her body, touching her as no other ever would have dared. Her shirt and trousers did little to buffer the boldness of his touch as his hand traced lightly across her.

The stranger’s action seemed easy, almost casual, as if
he were merely assuring himself of her presence. But Perry burned with each of his strokes. Many times she’d longed to be held as a woman, but the war never allowed the luxury of romance. This man’s touch caused a storm inside her, where only calmness had resided. A turmoil swirled within her blood like a whispering wind that warns of a raging tempest to come.

Any moment she might be caught by the Yankees and never know the touch of a lover’s hands. She wanted his gentle movements to continue, telling her of a closeness she’d never known before and might never know again.

He pulled her against him and nestled his head beside her hair. His arm remained protectively across her as his breathing slowed slightly. A sense of belonging, of homecoming, drifted over Perry.

As the minutes passed, she could feel the heat within her body moving to him. Perry relaxed. The shared warmth, combined with her lack of sleep, drew a curtain of drowsiness about her. She slept soundly for the first time in three days, her arms around a man about whom she knew nothing, not even his name.

Afternoon crept upon them as silently as a dream steals between thoughts. The rain slowed to a drizzle and the March wind faded to a low whine. Light seeped through the cracks of the barn walls, erasing the shadow’s domain. Noma stretched out in the corner. Perry rolled a foot from the stranger and sat up, surprised she’d lain so close to him. Noma stood, mumbling something about breakfast as she joined Perry.

“How bad was he shot?” Perry finally spoke the question that had haunted her during the hours she’d held him.

The black woman yawned and answered. “Near as I can figure, he weren’t shot at all. Looks like somethin’ heavy crashed into his shoulder and ripped his muscles apart. It puzzles me how he was hurt. On the right side of his neck and both his hands, there’s marks like a rope burn I saw once. It don’t make much sense at all.”

Looking intently at Perry, she continued. “But one thing’s for sure, Miz Perry. If he does come around, you better keep your hat pulled low. We don’t know what kind of man he is, and better he thinks you’re a boy.”

Perry smiled to herself. Unless the man was totally void of the sense of touch, he already knew her gender. Just the memory of his hand moving over her made her blush.

Noma wrapped her shawl around her bulk. “If he makes it, we’ll have to feed him. I’ll be back shortly. I’ll walk till I find food and maybe information. There’s bound to be folks around here somewhere. That thunder sounds like cannon fire. If I don’t check it out, we may end up in the middle of this damn war yet.” She continued mumbling as she left the loft, grunting in rhythm with the ladder.

Calling up quietly, Noma instructed, “Pull the ladder up so no one will notice the loft if they should wander in.”

“Be careful,” Perry answered.

Noma shoved the barn door open. “Don’t worry about me. Ain’t nobody interested in an old black woman. If I see any soldiers, I’ll just hide till they pass.”

Perry watched her leave, then pulled the ladder up, feeling as if she’d been abandoned. She sat beside the stranger, trying to understand why she felt somehow tied to him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, about the same age as her brother. His tan was deep and the tiny wrinkles around his eyes indicated he spent a great deal of time in the sun. Judging from his sun-bleached hair, it seemed he’d done so without a hat. The whisker stubble and dirt couldn’t conceal the fact that he was by far the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

The warmth of the stranger’s body drew her close. His breathing had a slow, regular rhythm. One determined ray of sun splashed planes of light and shadow across his face. Her eyes drifted past his strong chin to the bandages Noma had wrapped around his shoulder.

Something glimmered at his neck, twinkling in a moment
of sun like a slender gold cord. Curiosity forced her to tug at the fine yellow rope. A round gold disk appeared from behind his neck and slid lazily along the chain into Perry’s fingers. She turned it slowly from side to side, examining the disk in the dingy light. One side bore a crest unlike any Perry had ever seen. On the other side it was engraved, simply, Hunter Kirkland.

Perry smiled to herself. She now knew the injured man’s name. Hunter. He was no longer an unknown soldier. Filling the only cup with water, she knelt by his head and whispered, “Hunter.” She waited. “Hunter, swallow a little water. Please!”

Hunter didn’t respond. Perry removed her bulky hat and coat. Kneeling beside him once again, she cradled his head in her arms. “Hunter, please swallow.” Water trickled down his chin, but again no response came.

Perry wiped the spilled water from his face with her sleeve. He has to drink, she thought, or he’ll never live. She cradled his head close to her, holding him in a gentle vise between her breast and arm while she tried to force his mouth open. Again water trickled down his lips.

“Hunter, please swallow!” Again and again she begged. The water in the cup was half gone, and Perry’s arm ached from supporting the soldier’s head. Putting her finger into the cup, she touched Hunter’s eyes lightly with the cool water. His eyelashes seemed longer and darker when wet. The tips of her fingers touched his cheek and traveled to his lips. His short growth of beard tickled her fingertips as she stroked his face. She marveled at the softness of his lips.

“Hunter, please drink,” she whispered. This time, to her surprise, his eyes opened. Piercing gray eyes looked directly at her. A touch of alarm and an ounce of uncertainty blended in the smoky depths of his riveting gaze.

He stared at her, searching her face as though looking into her very soul. The gray intensity seemed to hold her frozen for a moment. Suddenly an invisible rumbling of
pain twisted his face, forcing his eyes closed. Torment echoed through her as she watched his agony.

A determined note rang in her voice as she said, “Hunter, drink this.”

Nodding slightly, he swallowed the remaining water in the cup. As though the effort were too much for him, he fell back, collapsing into sleep once more, his head still resting in her arms. She cradled him gently to her and felt a sense of accomplishment. She’d won the first battle with death but the war was not over. He was still very weak, and blood continued to seep from his shoulder. She lay his head down lovingly, as a mother puts a sleeping newborn to rest. Covering him with the blanket, she slid beside him once more.

Yet as she curled around him, Perry found it impossible to relax. She couldn’t erase his gray eyes from her mind. Their boldness and honesty had touched her, whirling her insides like a speeding merry-go-round.

As before, Hunter reached in his sleep to pull her near. His arm encircled her. His hand moved in the slow, familiar strokes of one who’d held her in his dreams all his life.

Perry was wide-awake now and totally aware that they were alone. She responded to his touch, molding willingly against his side as his fingers applied slight pressure along her spine. If the morning brought death, at least she would not have spent her last moments alone. He might not know it, but Hunter Kirkland might be her only taste of love.

Carefully she rested her hand on his unharmed shoulder, her fingertips touching the chain about his neck. Unbeckoned feelings were running through her veins, warming her blood and awakening a longing she’d never known. How could just a moment’s look into his eyes affect her so? Why was the feel of his hand surveying her body addictive at first touch?

She brushed her fingertips over his skin. Touching him excited and frightened her. Her heart pounded from the
feel of his flesh beneath her touch. Though her mind told her she shouldn’t, her senses danced with a timeless awakening. Somehow she knew that this time was special, secret and apart from the rest of the world.

Perry had spent many nights dreaming of how it would feel to have a man by her side. She pressed her body against Hunter’s full length as her hands continued to brush his skin lightly. She could feel his smooth muscles underneath the warm flesh. A tear drifted down her cheek as she thought of the bandaged shoulder, already stained anew with blood.

Hunter mumbled, and Perry leaned closer to understand his words. “Hold on, Abram!” he whispered. “Don’t let go. Hold on! The balloon’s going down. Hold on longer!”

Pain ripped through him, shaking Perry’s heart with sympathy. From the depth of his cry she knew his pain was both physical and emotional. She reached up, cupping his face with her hands and whispered softly, “Hush, Hunter. It’s all right now.”

Yet his agonized words tore through her as he continued to call softly, “Hold on, Abram!”

Perry attempted to steady Hunter’s large frame in her small arms. She caressed his sweating face, cooing words of reassurance. When her lips brushed his forehead, she could feel the high fever within him. Tears spilled onto her cheeks as she pulled him closer. “Please, please,” she begged. “Please, Hunter, don’t die.” Her words brushed his warm lips as she pleaded.

Then, like a storm that had blown itself at full gale, he relaxed. His body fell against her and he whispered, “Stay near.” His uninjured arm pulled her close, as if holding on to life itself.

Perry brushed his hair from his closed eyes. Her lips trailed light kisses across his temple. Dear Lord, she thought, his nearness was intoxicating. Touching him brought her a reckless pleasure, a deep gulp of life when she’d only taken sips before.

Her breath whispered against his ear as his hand slid up to brush the material covering her breast. He pulled her collar open enough for his fingers to caress the soft flesh of her neck. The top button pulled free, making her shirt slip from her shoulder and allowing Hunger’s fingers the freedom to slide her camisole strap off her shoulder.

As his hand brushed her warm flesh Perry’s mind raced. He might only be holding on to life, but she was living it for the first time. Every part of her was alive. As his thumb traced the lace of her camisole to the dip between her breasts, Perry knew she wouldn’t withdraw even if his hand explored further.

Hunter moved his face into her hair. “Don’t leave me, my angel, don’t leave me.” His voice was rich and deep, stirring her no less than his gray eyes and warm touch had.

Tears ran down her cheeks as she whispered, “I’m here.” He might only be dreaming, but the memory of this moment would stay within her forever.

Hunter relaxed in sleep, his arm around Perry.

“Live,” she whispered, moving her lips against his cheek. “You must live.”

The memory of his touch haunted Perry’s sleep as she dreamed of a tomorrow that might not come for Hunter.

As dawn glistened through the cracks and danced on the far wall, Perry awoke with a start. Noma had not returned. Slowly, Perry’s groggy mind realized that the constant thunder around her was cannon fire, not a storm. She crawled to the window and looked out. She could see nothing but blackness, but judging from the sound, the fight could be no more than a mile away. Noma was easily frightened. She was probably hiding somewhere, waiting for a chance to get back.

Now Perry felt not only fear but guilt as well. She’d spent the night dreaming of the way Hunter had touched her so tenderly and looked into her very soul with his gray eyes, while Noma had been somewhere outside, hiding. For one night Perry had been removed from the war, with no rules or fears to inhibit her. She’d cherished each moment. Now, in the morning light, she feared their time together might end before nightfall and she would be unable to spend another night in his arms.

The bandage across Hunter’s shoulder was a bloody reminder of death’s waiting vigil. Some spots along the white cloth were bright red, and others were already drying to a dark purple. The bandage had to be changed before the material stuck to his flesh and caused more damage.