Hawk's Prize

by Elaine Barbieri

  It chilled her.

  She turned abruptly toward the sound of Chantalle’s voice as the older woman ordered, “Go back inside, Tricia.”

  “What happened? What’s wrong with that man?”

  “I said, go back inside.” Chantalle shook her head. “I don’t have time to talk right now.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Chantalle gave her a despairing glance. “I don’t know who that fellow is, I don’t know where he came from, and I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I only know he passed out at the bar downstairs. He’s sick . . . burning up with fever. For all I know, he may be contagious, and I don’t want you exposed to any disease he may be carrying.”

  “You’ve been exposed, and so has everyone downstairs.”

  “That’s different.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Just do as I say.”

  Tricia felt a familiar shuddering begin inside her as dark memories of hours spent at the bedsides of suffering soldiers returned. She did not bother to reply but fell into step behind Chantalle as the older woman continued on down the hallway. She came to an abrupt halt at the bedroom doorway when she saw a muscular fellow with a white mustache struggling with the man on the bed, who had regained consciousness and was trying to stand.

  “Lie still.” Chantalle approached the sick man’s bedside, partially blocking Tricia’s view with her broad figure. “You passed out downstairs,” she said tersely. “You’re sick. I’ve called for a doctor.”

  Tricia heard the large man’s grunt of pain when the mustached fellow attempted to restrain him by pushing down on his leg. “I’m all right now,” the big man said with a shaky voice. “You wanted me to leave, so tell this fella to let me go.”

  “I’d let you leave if I thought you could make it out the door, but I don’t think you can.”

  “I can make it.”

  “As far as the stairs, maybe.” Chantalle continued more softly, “Just wait a few minutes. The doctor will give you something to take care of your fever, and then you can leave.”

  “I want to leave now.”

  Tricia heard the determination in the man’s tone. She had heard it many times before from men so badly wounded that they were not fated to survive. She remembered the many times she had heard that determination gradually weaken until it went still forever.

  The sound haunted her.

  It kept her strangely immobile as the sick man’s agitation increased.

  Drew fought the helplessness slowly overwhelming him. He was so hot . . . burning up . . . and his mind was becoming confused. The madam was right. He was sick, but he had been sick before and he had handled it. He didn’t need anyone’s help.

  But . . . what was that?

  The sudden boom of cannon fire startled him. He heard glass breaking. He ducked his head at the thuds of splintering beams falling around him.

  The Yankees were firing their big guns again!

  The barrage was relentless. Wounded men lay all around him in a house where only three walls remained. Some had minor wounds, and some had wounds so severe that he knew the men could not last much longer. He glanced at Willie, who lay on his stomach firing his gun as the enemy continued its unyielding approach.

  The enemy would soon overwhelm them.

  No, he couldn’t let that happen! He knew the fate that awaited these injured men in Federal prisons, where maggots feasted on the wounds of the dying and where Confederate soldiers gradually became unrecognizable as the brave men they had once been.

  He looked up at the mustached fellow standing over him. The man was not wearing a Yankee uniform, but he knew an enemy when he saw one.

  “Lie still.”

  He turned toward the other side of the bed, where a woman in red stood. Her voice echoed hollowly in his ears as she continued talking. He could not understand the words, but the mustached fellow reacted by holding him down more firmly.

  He winced at the pain. She was the enemy, too. He needed to escape.

  He tried to get up. He punched and struck out at the man restraining him. His wounded leg failed him, but he would not give up.

  He could not give up!

  Tricia snapped free of her immobility when Chantalle was flung back a step by the sick man’s thrashing. Stopping only a moment to steady her, Tricia ignored the older woman’s protests and moved closer to the stranger’s bedside.

  She dodged a flailing fist, frowning when she saw the fellow’s face for the first time. He was dark-haired, light-eyed, even-featured, and his expression was set. He was a big man who appeared in the prime of life, with muscle enough to perform whatever determination he had manufactured in his fevered mind, despite his injured leg’s obvious weakness.

  Somebody was going to get hurt.

  She couldn’t let that happen.

  Moving closer, Tricia ordered, “Stop fighting! You’ll hurt yourself if you continue.”

  Drew turned toward the sound of the woman’s voice. It was filled with a remembered pain that was similar to his own, and he was drawn instinctively to it.

  His struggles halted when he saw her standing beside his bed. Her hair was long and fair. Her skin was flawless. Her eyes were large and filled with the anguish he had heard in her voice. And she was dressed in a flowing dressing gown of celestial blue.

  An angel . . . an angel had come to help him.

  “You’ll be all right soon. We’ll take care of you.”

  She touched his hand. Her palm was smooth and cool against his skin.

  Her tone reassured him.

  Her presence consoled him.

  He was safe now that she was here.

  Relieved, he surrendered to the darkness.

  Tears brimmed in her eyes when the stranger went suddenly still, and Tricia choked out, “Is he dead?”

  Tricia’s question brought Chantalle to the stranger’s bedside in a few quick steps. She checked the pulse in his throat and responded, “He’s unconscious again. Something you said to him stopped his struggling cold.”

  Hardly aware of Chantalle’s response, Tricia saw that blood had begun seeping through the stranger’s trouser leg—trousers that were a Confederate gray.

  Her throat choked tighter. He’d been wounded in a war that had brought sorrow to the nation, but the color of the uniform he had worn made no difference to her. She knew what she must do.

  Taking a breath, Tricia looked at the mustached fellow who stood beside the bed and ordered, “Take off his pants.”

  “Ma’am?”

  Obviously uncertain, the man looked at Chantalle for confirmation.

  Tricia felt Chantalle’s startled stare and she returned it with a determined look.

  The fellow with the mustache looked at the older woman and repeated, “Ma’am . . . ?”

  His hesitant tone hung in the silence of the room. Chantalle responded sharply as she headed for the door, “You heard her, Jake. Take off his pants.”

  Chapter Two

  Drew awakened. He was hot, his memory was hazy, and the throbbing pain in his leg had returned, granting him no peace. He looked around him at the garish decoration of the room in which he lay. The wallpaper was outlandishly bright, the carpet color hurt his eyes, and the furniture was ornately carved. The setting sun shining through elaborate swirls of red satin at the windows cast the room in an eerily unnatural shade, and the matching red satin coverlet at the foot of his bed nauseated him.

  What was he doing lying in this huge, pillow-strewn bed with scented, lace-trimmed sheets—a bed far too large for a single occupant?

  A soft sound turned Drew toward a young woman working industriously beside a gaudily upholstered chair on the other side of the bed. She was blond and lovely. She appeared angelic with her exquisite features drawn into deep concentration as she fashioned bandages from rough pieces of cloth. Her surprisingly dark eyelashes were thick crescents against the rise of finely sculpted cheeks, the line of her profile was flawless, and her lips were full
and appealing.

  The pain in his leg suddenly stabbed more sharply. With it came a flash of reality.

  He remembered where he was . . . and he wasn’t in heaven.

  And the beautiful young woman in the celestial blue dressing gown wasn’t an angel, either.

  He needed to get out of there.

  Tricia turned at the sound of movement from the bed. The progress of events earlier had been so rapid—her bittersweet reunion with Chantalle, the disturbance in the hallway as she attempted to refresh herself, the big man being transported into a room at the end of the corridor, and his sudden lapse into unconsciousness.

  After Dr. Wesley examined him, treated his wound, and left, she had felt somehow responsible for him. Uncertain why, she only knew that she had assured Chantalle that she would look after him while Chantalle took care of house business.

  Tricia saw the big man begin struggling to stand. She protested as she approached him, “What are you doing? Your leg is badly infected. You need to rest . . . to give the medicine Dr. Wesley prescribed a chance to work.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  Startled by the fellow’s gruff response, Tricia said with a touch of annoyance, “You still have a fever and aren’t responsible for your actions, so I must insist that you lie still. The doctor said you shouldn’t move. If the infection reaches your bloodstream, the consequences could be dire.”

  “I don’t believe in doctors.”

  “You don’t believe . . .” Tricia’s voice trailed away. She began again, “As I said, you’re not responsible for your actions right now, and I don’t want to be accountable for your hurting yourself while you’re in this condition.”

  The big man’s light eyes locked with hers fiercely as he said, “I’m the only person responsible for me, and I can take care of myself.”

  Taken aback, Tricia managed, “Can you? Look at yourself. You can’t even stand up on your own!”

  “That’s what you think.”

  Heaving himself to his feet with a tremendous effort, the big man stood uncertainly, appearing even larger and more intimidating. Suddenly looking down at his short clothes with almost comical surprise, as if realizing for the first time that he was partially undressed, he demanded, “Where are my pants?”

  Tricia raised her chin. “They were stained with blood from your wound. I asked Polly to wash them.”

  “Get them back!” he ordered.

  “Why?” Uncertain what point there was in arguing with a fellow who wasn’t in full control of his senses, Tricia continued, “You didn’t seem so eager to leave when you got here.”

  His expression darkened. “Get . . . my . . . clothes!”

  “No.”

  Appearing to swell with anger, the big man took a threatening step toward her, only to grunt with pain as he leaned against the bed. At his side, she touched his forehead. He pushed her away, but not before she felt the unnatural heat under her palm.

  Regretting her annoyance, she said apologetically, “Listen to me, please. I don’t want to argue with you. Dr. Wesley said your wound had probably happened in the war. Since the war has been over for months, I can only assume that the infection has managed to get a secure hold. I don’t understand how you could have been released from an army hospital in your condition, but since you were—”

  “What do you know about army hospitals?” The big man’s eyes narrowed into deprecating slits. “A woman like you has probably never even seen one.”

  Tricia gasped. A woman like you . . .

  Her angry protest died on her lips when he attempted another step, only to have his leg collapse underneath him. Falling, he struck his head on the dresser with a sharp crack.

  When he went suddenly still, Tricia crouched beside him. He was unconscious, and barely breathing.

  Suddenly panicked, Tricia ran into the hallway, calling, “Chantalle . . . someone . . . help! He’s dying!”

  Gunfire and cannon blasts erupted simultaneously, rending the brief, unnatural silence. The smell of gunpowder was heavy on the smoke-filled air as Drew looked at the writhing body of his friend. Corporal Paul Williams was only twenty years old. He would never see his twenty-first year.

  Drew was still staring down at Paul’s bloodied face when the young fellow took his last breath.

  Dead . . . gone . . . like all the rest. He supposed he should be used to it. She had left when things got tough . . . his mother, who had said she’d always take care of his two sisters, his brother, and him. Then his father and his brother had left, too.

  But it was he who had left his sisters. . . .

  Gunfire again! The Yankees were advancing.

  He grabbed his gun and fired. He kept firing . . . holding them off . . . allowing time for his fellow soldiers to get away.

  He waited until the last minute, then, still firing, stood up to make his escape. He gasped when a hot, searing pain struck his shoulder, sending him sprawling into the mud. He could feel the blood streaming from the wound as he dragged himself to his feet and continued on. He could barely walk, but the wound did not cause him as much pain as the thoughts pounding through his brain.

  His family was gone.

  He had watched his friends die.

  His leg throbbed ceaselessly, his head hurt badly, his mind was confused, but one thought remained clear.

  He had failed them.

  Tricia stared down at the big man thrashing on the bed as she waited for the doctor to return. She heard his mumbled torment as he relived moments of the heartbreaking war that had recently ended. Pain twisted tight inside her. She had seen men similarly haunted before, but despite his seeming opposition to every word she said, this man had somehow touched her.

  Unwilling to allow Chantalle to see she was so affected, Tricia glanced up at the older woman, who stood opposite her. Chantalle had responded to her call for help by summoning several men into the room to lift the big man back onto the bed. She had sent for the doctor and had then dismissed the men. Tricia had tried to make the fellow comfortable, but she knew the damage was done. His leg was bleeding again, and his head was grotesquely swollen where he had struck it when he fell. She had insisted that she was capable of caring for him, but she had obviously overestimated her ability. Her care had resulted in the wound that presently complicated the poor fellow’s condition.

  And she still didn’t know his name.

  Chantalle broke the silence to question softly, “You say you went through the contents of this man’s pockets, Tricia, and you didn’t find anything that could help us identify him?”

  Tricia responded helplessly, “He was only carrying a money pouch with a few coins in it and a few incidentals that don’t mean much.”

  “Incidentals?”

  “What appeared to be a Confederate military button or an insignia of some sort, a damaged piece of old jewelry, and a few other things.”

  “That’s strange. He should have some sort of identification.” Chantalle was still dressed in the crimson gown she had worn earlier, signifying that her evening had just begun; yet her expression was weary as she frowned and said, “We need to contact his family . . . just in case.”

  Just in case.

  Tricia took a breath. “I don’t think he has any family. He said he’s responsible for himself.”

  “There has to be somebody.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No one is that alone. He came here with a friend, so there has to be someone who cares about him.” Chantalle’s expression suddenly brightened. “Of course—I should have thought of it sooner. His mount is in our barn out back. I’ll get somebody to search his saddlebags. He’s bound to have some paperwork in there—especially if he was recently released from a military hospital.”

  Not waiting for Tricia’s reply, Chantalle turned toward the door. She said over her shoulder, “Doc Wesley should be here any minute. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  The silence of the room seemed thunderous as the d
oor clicked closed behind Chantalle. Tricia took a few steps closer to the bed and stared helplessly down at the big man. The swelling on his forehead seemed to have intensified. He was still mumbling incoherently, and her sense of inadequacy increased. What was going to happen to him?

  Aching deep inside, Tricia scrutinized the fellow’s flushed visage. He was young, she guessed, probably in his mid-twenties. She supposed the average woman would think him handsome, considering his heavy dark hair and those startlingly light eyes that had looked at her so accusingly. His features were strong and chiseled despite the beard beginning to shadow his face, and his lips were pleasantly full.

  She wondered offhandedly what it would be like to see those lips move into a smile meant expressly for her. Realistically, she supposed she’d never find out.

  Tricia glanced up at the door tensely. Where was the doctor? Why was he taking so long to get there?

  Tricia looked back at the dresser where the fellow’s money pouch lay. She had been so hopeful when she had gone through his meager possessions in an attempt to identify him, but the effort had been a waste. Could she have missed something?

  Frowning, she walked to the dresser and scrutinized the few articles again. A money pouch . . . a comb . . . a military insignia of some type . . .

  Tricia opened the money pouch and looked inside. As before, she saw a few dollars and a damaged ring that had originally borne a crest that was hard to distinguish. She could barely make out the sailing ship on it, but she—

  “What are you doing?” Tricia jumped as the deep voice sounded behind her.

  Tricia dropped the ring back into the pouch as if it had scalded her fingers. She said defensively, “I was trying to find something to identify you. We don’t know your name . . . where you come from.”