The Better Angels: Hearts Touched by Fire, Book 4

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The Better Angels: Hearts Touched by Fire, Book 4 Page 13

by Gina Danna


  His brows furrowed as he swallowed the poison. His blue gaze did not falter, holding her attention fully. She sighed. No wonder the house servant gave into his whims. A small voice in the back of her head mockingly taunted her, would she do the same? Stomping that noise out, she yanked the cup back.

  “Let us not down the entire cup, sir. It is only to take in small measures.”

  He scowled. “Do make up your mind, doctor.”

  The title rolled off his tongue and sent a shiver down her spine, one that was warm and enticing. Finally, a patient who accepted what she was….unless it was in jest. Another stab she shoved aside while putting the cup on the table. She pushed the bed sheet to the side.

  “Please put your legs over the side of the bed.”

  Dutifully, he did. He bare feet slightly brushed the carpet next to the bed. Ada went back to the doorway and picked up the walking cane.

  “Here.” She handed one to him. “Put it next to the wounded foot and stand, weight on the good one, please.”

  He grappled with the cane, trying to put his hand on it so it was stable. His good foot hit the carpet and with one hand on the mattress, the other on the walking stick, he rocked to stand. But he couldn’t raise himself.

  “Let me help.” She bullied her way under his right arm, wrapping her arm around his waist and urged him up. He was heavier, she discovered, than she’d imagined. Or perhaps, her long hours at the hospital and worrying here had drained her more than she knew, but as he leaned on her, she bit her bottom lip, determined to help.

  “Put some of your weight on that cane, if you don’t mind.”

  He grunted, pulling himself all the way up. His body trembled as he adjusted his stance. Looking down, she saw the injured appendage still remained off the floor. “Look, soldier, I need you to put some weight on that foot.”

  “It’s Corporal.”

  She snorted. “Corporal, however, regardless of title or name, please put that foot to the floor.”

  Gingerly, he put it down but the heel was still in the air.

  “How does it feel?”

  “Not bad, nor is it great, either.”

  “Yes, of course.” She tried twisting to catch a better view, noticing the chair across the room could have held her spot right now. Disgusted she missed that, she went back to trying to view him, fearing if she let him down to grab it, he’d refuse or couldn’t get up again.

  “Can we try putting the heel down?”

  He glared at her. She couldn’t help it. Her lips curved in a smile, because despite his determined look with a touch of anger, he was still handsome. His dark hair had a few strands that strayed into his eyes, his angler cheekbones with those sapphire blue eyes just plain held her attention. She shuddered, realizing she needed to watch his movements, not fantasize about a man who stood a traitor to her country, enslaving people for no other reason than back breaking labor he could order them to do. It was then a cold wave washed over her, drenching the attraction, almost on cue for he stepped down then.

  “Argh!” He hopped the damaged foot back up. “I can’t!”

  “Shhhh,” she whispered. “Stay right here.”

  “What?” He teetered between the good foot and the cane.

  She dragged the chair over for him to grip. Sure he was steady, she bent down, thankful crinolines were not allowed in the hospital. Reaching under the sole of his foot, she got to his heel.

  “Slowly, lower.”

  “No.”

  She glanced up at him. “Please. I need to see—”

  “That was how I fell,” he bit back. With his heel raised slightly, he added, “This feels better.”

  Ada shook her head, remembering he had had a major infection and the wound was severe. Maybe she was pushing too much…

  “All right. For tonight, why don’t we eat, let you rest and try again tomorrow?”

  He grumbled about hunger. She nodded, anything to get him fed and rested. The truth was, the longer he was here, the bigger the trouble this would be. She needed him standing and walking. Taking a glance at him, seeing how again, he looked so handsome. Again, she shook her head, thinking his recovery had to be soon, before she strangled herself!

  Chapter 16

  “… I am heartily tired of hearing about what Lee is going to do. Some of you seem to think he is suddenly going to turn a double somersault, and land in our rear and on both of our flanks at the same time. Go…and try to think about what we are going to do ourselves, instead of what Lee is going to do.”

  —General US Grant snapped at his officers for worrying over what Confederate General Lee would do to them.

  The Battle of the Wilderness, May 5-6, 1864

  Surgeon Will Leonard walked down the hallway of the hospital, papers in hand, his mind calculating how many patients remained and, of that, which were the mostly likely to be leaving. The holidays were coming and he knew it would be a dismal time for those who remained here, since many of the staff were given furloughs, the ones with sufficient time to make it home for the holidays. Even now, the dreariness crept through the windowpanes as the sun set earlier and the cold breeze of winter descended.

  It was then he saw her. Ada stood from a sitting position next to a cot, her expression strained as she pulled the blankets up and over the head of the patient. Will sighed. Another one dead from a war that never seemed to end.

  But what concerned him more was Ada. She looked drained and not herself, her step appeared to falter and he feared she’d fall so he raced in. Scooping his arm around her waist, he pulled her upright.

  “Are you all right?” He steered her to an empty chair near the table to the side, sitting her down.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I don’t know what got over me.”

  He frowned, pouring her a cup of lukewarm coffee from the top of the warming stove in the center of the room. “It’s not hot,” he said, shoving the cup into her hand. “Those damn stoves weren’t made to warm wards this big.”

  She sipped and gave him a smile. “It will do the trick.”

  The color returned to her cheeks, only demonstrating how pale she’d been. The dark circles under her eyes worried him.

  “You look exhausted.”

  She snorted. “Why, good afternoon to you as well.”

  “How is our patient?” His tone was barely above a whisper. No one else needed to hear but her.

  She inhaled. “I’m quickly coming to the conclusion that pussing isn’t good, despite what Waxler and all you think. Fevers seem to spike during that and there is a smell one can’t escape.”

  Will tightened. Again, she was questioning established logic. How many times had they squabbled over facts? This time, he’d let it pass. “I meant the one you are attending, privately,” he added softly.

  Her lips tightened. “He’s slowly recovering. Even stood yesterday.”

  “That is marvelous!”

  She grabbed his hand, pulling him down to her level. “And fell, nearly letting the cat out of the bag, as it were. The house maid came up to see.”

  “I told them he was your brother.”

  Her eyes shot wide open and she shook her head. “I understand that, but when he speaks, that slavery-drawl ekes out.”

  Her abhorrence of the man’s way of life, put this way, made him laugh. “Southern, my dear.”

  “Yes, well, what is the next step? The inflammation was nearly gone, and will be soon. I’ve done all I can do to rid the infection. He’ll never walk right again, running will be out of the question, so doubtful he’ll return to the fight. But I can’t keep him forever.”

  Will stood, running his fingers through his hair, scanning the ward. The half dozen remaining patients were asleep, or so it appeared, so he kept his voice low.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “What?” She now stood. “Will, please!” She paused then a shocked look passed over her eyes. “You can’t return him to the war. He’s a prisoner!”

  “Shhh,” he
reminded her. “I can’t keep him with you, either. Dr. Waxler reported your worn out appearance to Dragon Dix.”

  “That old biddy can just calm her horses,” she snarled. “I am fine.”

  “Just a warning. Go home and we’ll talk in the morning.”

  She gave him a nod, her quick acquiescence to his order unnerved him more. She was sinking in a pool of mire with that man and running herself ragged here. One day, she’d raise hell on him for this and that could end his career…

  It was another gruesome day. Ada blew the strand of hair that had managed to come loose from her tight bun sometime during the day and strongly considered cutting it all off, since hats, combs and any other ‘adornment’ was prohibited by Dorothea Dix, but then, she’d be cold with no hair. She was tired, disgusted and constantly feeling like she was beating her head against a brick wall. Oh, she smiled when she talked to someone, especially the patients, often swallowing the bile that threatened when she looked at the wound that simply refused to heal. Despite Will’s, and every other doctor’s opinions, she was sure the puss that formed from that poor private’s stump was an infection and, sure enough, it killed him.

  Another death for a race to beat those slave-owners and cure that infection!

  She inhaled deeply. The cold air on her walk home chilled her and brought her own fervor down to sociably acceptable levels. She needed to conquer what she’d endured to get through tonight. And what if that man had the housemaid in his room again? That made her stomach twist. If Mrs. Turner was still up and at the front parlor, Ada couldn’t walk in like a warrior, ready to tackle anyone in her wake. Working to control her features, she drudged up the stairs to the front door and entered.

  It was the laughter to the right of the hall that caught her attention first. She stopped and turned to find Mrs. Turner seated near the fireplace and across from her was that man, Monsieur Louisiana. The snake in her stomach coiled. What mischief was he up to this time?

  “Good evening, Mrs. Turner,” she greeted her hostess, her gaze still locked on the soldier sitting across from her. Her quick assessment surprised her. He was upright, dressed remarkably well, in black pants and white shirt with a maroon waistcoat. She swallowed the saliva in her throat, unaware she’d held it, and her breath, overwhelmed by his transformation. His hair was combed and pomaded back, his face shaved and those sapphire blue eyes shone with glee. He was enjoying her unease.

  “Ma chère, so pleased you have returned.” The mischievous smile that hinted at his lips nearly undid her.

  “How did you….” She realized her thoughts jumped ahead of her. “I’m pleased you’ve recuperated enough to manage to make it here. Surprised, as you can imagine, but pleased.” At the odd look from her hostess, she added, “My dear.” Hopefully that affectionate phrase worked with his. Will had told her he’d informed Mrs. Turner they were siblings. While she doubted the old woman would think that way, as they looked anything but related, she played the game.

  “Mrs. Turner here was so kind as to bring me a cane, seeing as Miss Turner informed her how I had fallen.”

  She saw the stick leaning against the chair, the silver knob on top barely noticeable with the fire in the pit burning. It was much fancier than the one she’d brought him. Then she noticed his shoes. One brogan peeked out from under the pant hemline. That made her frown. His foot had been swollen last night…

  “I just couldn’t fathom a grown man pleased to be confined to bed,” Mrs. Turner gushed. “Mr. Turner was barely able to sit and yet, refused to be bedridden, God rest his soul. So, I found his cane and offered it to your husband.” She grinned.

  It took every ounce of energy she could muster not to let her jaw drop open. Husband? Another swallow.

  “How very kind of you to do so, Mrs. Turner. I’m sure it was well appreciated.” She glanced at her patient. “I didn’t think you were up to moving yet. That wound was severe.”

  “Yes, I was telling her how that horseshoe nail had been difficult to see when I was loading our trunks.” He turned toward Mrs. Turner. “I’m sure she’d been so busy, helping the boys in blue at the hospital, she neglected to say much. She’s such a dedicated soul.”

  Ada nearly exploded. A horseshoe nail?

  “Another hard day, my love?”

  Spoken in English, the affectionate term was too much. Her heart was taken by another man. A more worthy one, she might add. Her skin crawled that this southern rebel might think he could compete with him!

  “Just a lot of patients,” she stated as casually as she could. Re-pasting the smile that had fled back on her face, she added, “Many are improving.”

  “Good,” Mrs. Turner replied.

  “Yes, indeed.” Her patient grabbed the cane and using it as a lift, managed to raise himself upright. “Mrs. Turner, thank you for the cane and the splendid company. The tea was enjoyable.”

  “Oh, you are welcome, Mr. Fontaine.” She smiled, red cheeked and squinting. It made Ada want to retch, seeing how her landlady was swooning over him.

  He was grinning ear to ear. That sparked an angry thread inside her. The desire to slap his cheek and snap him out of this sent tingles down her arms.

  He hobbled over to her, gently slipping his hand under Ada’s arm while over his shoulder he said, “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe my wife needs to relax. If it is possible, could we get bath water?”

  “This isn’t a Southern farm,” Ada sneered in a hush tone, incensed he’d ask for this, as if there were slaves available here for such a luxury.

  He smiled. A smile that grew larger when Mrs. Turner replied.

  “I’ll see if I can’t send some up directly. Good night, Mr. and Mrs. Fontaine.”

  Ada could barely contain herself. Mrs. Fontaine? As he halfway directed her toward the stairs, using his other hand to manage the cane, she realized he was walking. It was slow and deliberate but it was a walk, not a jump or slide of the foot. Her anger kept her lips shut, for fear she’d blurt something vile at what he’d done, but her inner self had a dozen questions to ask him. That is, if she didn’t kill him first.

  Like how had he gone from prostrate in bed, his foot swollen and ugly, to walking?

  Francois felt the robe of intense anger wrapped around his physician as he guided her to the stairs. If she wasn’t a doctor, he’d wager she’d push him down that staircase in a second, but how else was he to explain his presence? Brother was highly doubtful. They looked nothing alike, and he came from a family where it was obvious who was related to whom, so his dark hair, high cheekbones and blue eyes held no counterpart to a slim, petite lady with dirty blonde hair, hazel eyes and a temper that blazed easily.

  Besides, Mrs. Turner was somewhat suspicious of Ada, which was fairly obvious. She’d told him how she thought the world of Ada, for helping tend those ‘poor, wounded soldiers,’ though that was far from a ladylike course of action. Her tone, changing from praise to pettiness, had forced him to do the only thing he could to protect her and him, and that was claiming they were married. Now, he’d have some explaining to do. Wonder if he could do it without her throwing him out, or worse.

  Thankfully, their room was at the top of the stairs, second to the right. As he pushed the door open, a task that was a little harder than he imagined, since he cradled that foot, balancing with the cane. But it swung open to the small sitting area that was adjacent to the bedroom. The discovery that she’d spent her nights curled on that small settee while he took the bed had angered him. Ladies should never have to give up comfort for men like him, he’d argued with himself. Yet, he knew he had no choice.

  “All right now,” Ada exclaimed, stepping away from him to close the door and shed her cloak and gloves to the chair. “Let us get you into bed—”

  “My, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a lady order me to bed,” he chortled, hobbling toward the mattress. The stairs had been grueling. His ankle and heel were sore.

  “I’m not ordering you for any nefarious reasons,” sh
e shot back. “I can tell you’re hurting. Probably pushed yourself too hard, to stand and walk.”

  Wheeling slightly with the cane in aid, he climbed on the mattress, his feet swinging off the side of the bed. It’d taken the last of his reserved strength to get up here. He never understood why it had to be so high off the ground.

  “I could no longer take being held hostage, as it were.”

  “Hostage?” she asked in a painful voice. As if she held him there by gunpoint.

  Perhaps that phrase was a bit harsh. Yet, that was how he felt. Stuck in the land of those people. He snorted softly. Those people was General Lee’s expression for the Yankees, something Wiggins had told him that made him laugh. Of all the times for that to pop into his head…

  She didn’t even flinch at his laugh. Instead, she appeared entirely fixated on his injury as she lifted his foot up to the mattress. Her brows furrowed as she stared at his boot.

  “I had wondered…” she murmured, inspecting his work.

  Francois steeled his shoulders as she lifted the trouser leg to see the boot he’d managed to shove on hours earlier. Then, she turned his limb, causing a shot of pain to face up his leg. Contorting his face to prevent himself from yelling, he countered her move with, “That is still sore.”

  She glanced up, a look of shock on her face, as if she’d forgotten he was awake. “I’m sorry. But we need to get this off.”

  He swallowed hard. This was going to hurt.

  She pulled the linen strip he had tied around his calf. “I’m amazed you did this. Where did you find the knife?”

  How was he to tell her? He’d tried to stand and the only plausible way was to not have his heel hit the floor. So how was he to walk? Scanning the room for answers, he’d found his worn out boots. He now regretting not having the brogans most of the soldiers wore, but supplies were slim and when his pair fell apart, he switched to the boots, happy to have another set of footwear to wear.

 

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