“No.” His gaze hardened. “Go. Do it now.”
“I’ll go when I finish here, unless you care to bleed to death.” She tore a strip from the precious flannel she’d saved for the babe—the only thing she had available to use for a bandage—and pressed it against the wound.
“That’s an order, ma’am.”
Had she been able to tear her gaze from his, she would’ve rankled over his assumption that he could bark orders and expect her to follow them. But his demeanor was not one of superiority—rather a plea. Lafe would have given her the same edict.
She tore another strip, folded it to make a pad, and laid it on top of the previous one, then took his hand. “You need to put pressure on this.”
His fingers folded around hers. “I’m sorry I sounded harsh. I don’t much care if I’m found or if I bleed to death. Believe it or not, I’m thinking of you and the—your babe. I don’t know where your husband is, but if he shows up, I want him to know I did my best to keep you from harm. Even if I die trying.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Please. I promise I won’t bleed to death while you’re gone.”
Charlotte pulled her hand away, but their gaze remained locked. Die trying. The very words Lafe used and she fought against hearing. Did this Sergeant Stallings realize that her husband was somewhere off waging war against the likes of him? Yet, his thoughts were not for his own safety but for hers. Hers and Lafe’s unborn babe.
He was weak, with one arm completely useless, and he wore an enemy uniform. At least Lafe would label him an enemy. But was he? If Lafe were in the same situation, weak and injured and at the mercy of some strange woman, he’d never cause that woman harm. When one man was willing to stand for what he believed against another man who had the same conviction, only an opposing view, which was the enemy?
She willed herself to look away and pushed herself to her feet. Words wouldn’t get past the lump in her throat, so she’d not even try. Rather, she’d focus on what needed to be done.
Stallings was either asleep or unconscious again when Charlotte returned, but his hand still lay on the bandages. She was thankful she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze, and she hoped he wouldn’t awaken when she moved his hand so she could finish binding the wound. The memory of the gentle squeeze haunted her. It was difficult to pretend this man was her husband and not respond to his touch.
“Did you make sure you wiped them all away?”
She jerked her hand away. “I thought you were— Your eyes were closed, so I thought—”
He opened one eye, and a hint of a smile crinkled the corner of his mouth. “Have a habit of closing my eyes when I hurt. I don’t suppose you have anything for pain?”
“I…we have laudanum in the cabin. I—”
“No!” Both eyes were open now, wide and threatening. He grabbed her wrist again. “You’ll not think of leaving this place. It’s not an option. Promise me. Even if I pass out again, you must not leave here.”
She pulled against his grip. “I wasn’t going to try to get down the hill, but only because I promised my husband I wouldn’t, not because you’re shouting orders at me. I’m not one of your soldiers, Sergeant Stallings.”
Remorse slid across his countenance. “I apologize, ma’am. Would you finish binding the wound?”
Charlotte pointed to her wrist. “I can’t very well do that with one hand.”
He released his hold and closed his eyes again.
“Are you hurting worse? Your eyes are closed again.” If only he’d let her explain. She had no intention of trying to make it down the hill on her own. Not now. But she would have ventured outside the safety of the cave to look for willow bark or dandelion leaves to make a strong tea. But then, he’d probably have resisted that, too.
He shook his head but didn’t open his eyes. “I caused you pain, and I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me.”
She didn’t answer. She should have. Good manners dictated she at least acknowledge his apology. Except for Lafe, few people had ever apologized for causing her pain of any kind, and Lafe had to teach her how to respond. Words were easy, but trusting those words came hard. Over the years, she’d learned that Lafe didn’t utter one syllable she couldn’t believe, whether it was declaration of love, an apology, or a promise. So she knew—although she hated to acknowledge it—that if he didn’t come back, he died trying.
While this man said the right things, he had yet to prove himself. Thankful his eyes were closed, she studied his face. A small wrinkle lay between his brows, and from time to time his jaw rippled. Was that a sign of pain he didn’t want to admit? Or was he deep in thought. Did he have a wife somewhere? Someone who missed him and wondered if he were all right, just as she worried over Lafe? Did the woman have his babe nestled in her womb? Should she ask? Would he tell her?
If Lafe was injured and lying on another woman’s bed, would she study Lafe’s face as he slept? Would she ask him questions about his wife? Would he admit he’d left her in a cave high on a hillside? Would he tell her about their unborn child? Would he—
Cast down all imaginations…bring all thoughts captive to the obedience of Christ.
Th e babe kicked against her ribs and jolted her back to the task on hand. She took a deep breath and lifted the bandages. No fresh bleeding. Good. Now to get the wound bound before he opened his eyes again. Those eyes— like candles in a window—invited her to seek shelter within. But she dare not accept the invitation.
Robert clenched his teeth, determined to keep his eyes closed while Charlotte continued to care for his wound. It was true that he shut his eyes against pain. But there was more than the pain of his shoulder involved.
Molly was not the first woman to ever catch his attention. But she was the only woman to capture his heart. Before Molly, he hadn’t known how much love a heart could contain—full, sometimes, to the point of hurting. Even when he thought it could hold no more, she’d find a small crevice, the tiniest of cracks in his ordinarily well-guarded seat of emotions, and pack it even tighter.
He fisted his good hand at his side, determined to concentrate on now, to forget the then. Forget? How was he to forget when the now was nearly as unlikely as his meeting Molly? Sure, he’d observed the Teasdale woman from afar, but how could he have known seeing her face could evoke such comparison? He, a Union soldier, at the mercy of a woman who sought safety in the cave from the very likes of him.
Th eirs had been an unlikely meeting, too, his and Molly’s. She a banker’s daughter and he a cowboy. They’d met when he went to her father’s Kansas City bank to sign the papers for his ranch. There she sat, dressed in pink and looking for all the world like a wild rose.
He’d learned to drink wine and use the correct fork, all while wearing stiff-collared white shirts and silk bowties. She, over the objections of her parents, had climbed into his buggy and headed west after their wedding. They’d slept under the stars on their wedding night and one short year later danced under the stars when she told him he was to be a papa.
Th en with the labor of birth came the swiftness of death, and his heart broke. The break released all the love it once held. He’d survived. Against his will, he’d survived, but with survival came a new kind of agony. The agony of bittersweet memories.
An involuntary moan escaped from his lips.
“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be more gentle.”
The woman’s voice was soft and tender. How could she know his moan
wasn’t from pain from the now, but hurt from the past? Her compassion couldn’t help the ache that went deeper than the bullet lodged in his shoulder.
Th e army had helped, somewhat. Days could now pass without his every thought occupied by Molly. Over the past three years, his heart had begun to patch itself together again. But he’d vowed it would never again hold love. He’d reveled in the discipline it took to be a good soldier. He’d chosen a side and prided himself on his loyalty—until now.
Now, with order Number 11, the seams of his patchwork
heart began to come apart. Into the crevices crept bitterness and a loathing for what man could do to man—and a hatred for what he, as Sergeant Robert Stallings, was instructed and expected to fulfill. While he was fully aware of that internal war, he’d not anticipated the battle he now fought.
What he felt for the woman tending his wound wasn’t love. Not even close. He’d not allow it. Could not fathom it. But the sighting of Charlotte Mae Teasdale, alone and with child amidst the rock and timber of this Missouri hillside, instigated a skirmish that quickly escalated. It wasn’t like he was unaware of the danger involved. What made it worse, in debriefing the situation, was how he’d convinced himself the only way to save himself was to reach the very doorstep of the imagined foe. He’d crawled and pulled his way for hours and now lay helpless in both mind and body.
He was too weak to even sit up by himself. One arm was useless. His shoulder throbbed. And as for his heart—
“Are you about done?” His resolve was melting fast, and he had to fight to keep his eyes closed.
“Almost. Just need to tie the ends of this bandage and then you can rest.”
He groaned when she secured the dressing.
“I’m so sorry, I’ve hurt you again. I don’t want this to wiggle loose.”
Cool fingers brushed his forehead.
“I don’t think you have fever, but if you’re a praying man this would be the time to do it. Would you like another drink of water?”
He nodded. “I am, and I would.”
She didn’t answer him, but he sensed her absence, and it only added to his angst. He could always sense Molly’s presence and would know if she left the room, even without hearing or witnessing either the coming or going. He’d never asked another man if it was normal, and perhaps it wasn’t so unusual. Yet it was the one thing that haunted him after her death—he could no longer feel her. He’d walk from room to room, night after night, begging her to come back, longing to catch a whiff of the rosewater she always dabbed behind her ears and on her wrists.
He’d been in the army long enough now to almost forget. Nighttime was a noisy time among men, and their presence or leaving was never a mystery. It helped. He no longer woke with a start when a fellow soldier entered a darkened room after answering the call of nature. He’d learned early that rosewater was not among the various fragrances a fellow encountered in a camp of men.
But now…now Charlotte Teasdale had left his side without a sound, and he sensed her absence. His chest tightened, the way it often did right before going into battle. The sensation that came with the uncertainty of the outcome. He turned his head to the side. He was thirsty, but he couldn’t chance looking into her eyes—eyes as clear and blue as a summer sky. Not yet. She was a married woman with another man’s child in her womb.
Oh, God, I am a praying man. Please don’t let me succumb to anything that is not in Your perfect will.
CHAPTER 7
Late September, 1863 Robert side-stepped his way down the steep hillside. One thing was sure, it was much easier going down than his climb uphill a month ago had been. He paused and rotated his shoulder.
Th ough still tender, he’d regained the use of his arm and no infection had hindered the healing process. Charlotte was a good nurse. Too good. Although his britches still bore the evidence of a Union soldier, the war he fought was one of the heart and mind—and he was his own worst enemy.
What was it about Charlotte that made it possible for her to penetrate the wall of memories and unanswered questions that had become his hiding place? Few people—and those only a handful left behind in Kansas—knew of Molly. Just as he would never have dreamed to share his wife with another man while she was living, he couldn’t share her memory, either. But then, he’d surrounded himself with men and had stayed deliberately detached, and no one pried. Charlotte didn’t pry, either. Yet, somehow she’d managed to chink away at the mortar of his memory bank and steal his reserve.
A squirrel scolded him from a branch high above. Evidently he’d stayed too long in the bushy-tail’s domain. He gave a mock salute. “I got the message, kind sir, and will continue on my way.”
He gave one more furtive glance through the timber. Though birds still sang, and squirrels chattered, his military training cautioned him to be alert. So why had he let down his military guard when it came to Charlotte Teasdale?
Th e truth was, he had no answer. Whether it was weakness from the loss of blood, or perhaps the anonymity the cover of darkness of the cave provided, the end result was the same—they’d both shared openly about their mates, and they’d also shared tears in the doing. Yet, he’d not felt shame or embarrassment.
But while he was now able to release the pain of Molly’s passing, he was not free to claim Charlotte’s heart. She had a husband…somewhere. His name was Lafe, he’d hidden her in the cave to protect her from Ewing’s men, and she had no idea where he was or when he would return, only that he promised to be there for the birth of their child…or die trying.
He stepped forward and allowed gravity to pull him down the hill for a short distance, making sure his shoulders stayed well behind his feet lest he topple head over heels. While he managed to keep his body upright, he couldn’t stop images of the past weeks from tumbling through his mind with each downward tread. They’d talked no further of that night of revelation but in the following days and weeks, theirs had become a comfortable existence. This morning, when he told her of his plan to return to the clearing, her eyes spoke words her lips didn’t utter, and his arms ached to pull her to him. He wanted to hold her and assure her he’d return soon, that she’d be safe until then.
But it was wrong. Laughing and crying and the sharing of private matters made it too easy to have vain imaginations. If he had any sense at all, he’d hit the clearing and keep on going. Flee from youthful lust. Isn’t that what God’s Word required? He couldn’t leave her. Wouldn’t leave her. But neither could he continue to occupy the same space, even if separated at night. This was not a nocturnal skirmish he was in. It was a full-out battle, and one he couldn’t afford to lose.
Charlotte folded her arms on top of her rounded belly, and leaned against the entrance to the cave. A slight breeze lifted a strand of hair and she pushed it behind her ear. The dense foliage had long ago swallowed Robert, and while she could no longer see him, she didn’t move from her vantage point. Had he sensed her angst at his leaving?
It wasn’t that she was afraid to be alone. She wasn’t. She’d become quite accustomed to her cave dwelling. Although she missed her cabin and the treasures it held, she’d found a sense of satisfaction making-do with what she had.
No, it wasn’t being alone that frightened her. Still no sign of Lafe frightened her. The prospect of his never returning allowed fear to run rampant. All the what-ifs she’d experienced in childhood reared their ugly heads. Lafe had rescued her from them, but who was to rescue her if Lafe didn’t return? Her tummy tightened, a different sensation than what signaled the babe’s movement. It didn’t hurt, and it subsided quickly. Had she been busy with something she doubted she’d even noticed. But she wasn’t busy, and she did notice.
She took a step outside the opening and shielded her eyes against the sun. If only she could catch a glimpse of Robert. Aside from begging him to stay, what more could she have done to prevent his going? She wiped her hands across her eyes. To be truthful, Robert frightened her, too. Rather, he elicited feelings she’d heretofore only experienced with Lafe—and that scared her. She couldn’t allow herself to describe it as love, but rather that of safety, of being able to share her heart and know he wouldn’t laugh. Of knowing he felt safe enough to shed tears and not apologize.
But it was wrong. All wrong. And that’s what frightened her the most. God’s Word was plain about such things—flee youthful lusts…thou shalt not covet…cast down imaginations.
Another twinge tightened her tummy, and this time waltzed its way around to her lower back. She wrapped both arms around her u
nborn child. “Getting restless, little one? Well, you go ahead and wiggle. At least I know you’re there. But you wait for your papa, you hear me?”
She scu ffed back to the inner chamber and lay down. She’d not slept well last night, and there was little to do today but wait.
Oh, Lafe. You rescued me once. Please, please come home.
She gulped.
And, Robert…stay safe.
Robert stood at the edge of the timber. Except for piles of ashes and burned shells of what were once buildings, little was left in the clearing. He’d sift through the remains in hopes of finding something—anything to take back to Charlotte. In all their talking, he’d not mentioned the mound of household goods he’d witnessed being tossed from her cabin, nor the smoldering pile of ashes he’d noticed when he regained consciousness that terrible day.
Even more obvious than the destruction, more telling than the remains of what at one time had been a thriving homestead, was the awful stillness. Death had a silence all its own, but this went beyond that. Death stilled a voice, while the clamor of life continued around it. But this kind of silence seeped into his mind and his heart. It shouted and cried and moaned until he put his hands over his ears to quiet it. Bent corpses of trees, as though they still writhed in pain, stood stark and black around the remains of what had been Charlotte’s home. Even after all this time, he still remembered the bleating ewe and the squawking chickens that had been taken as spoils, their agonized voices of terror echoing over the terrible void of life that permeated the area.
Oh, God, what awful destruction man has done unto his fellow man. Why? How long will this hate continue? How will the generations to come view this terrible time? As surely as fire consumed the hopes and dreams and livelihood of the peoples along these borders, it is by Your mercy that we, Your people are not consumed.
With heavy feet, he shu ffled to the remains of the cabin. How strange that the doorframe still stood, and even stranger that he felt compelled to enter through it, though there were no longer walls. Dishes lay, still stacked, where once a cupboard must have been, but they crumbled in his hands when he touched them. A corner of a picture frame, a blackened spoon, the buckle from a man’s belt, like bones of a once-upon-a-time life, lay buried among the ashes of all else reduced and returned to dust. It was like walking through a burial box, and his stomach heaved.
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