Another ambulance wagon came up on him and his eyes widened. He didn’t need to be run over! Adrenaline helped him push away the pain and he struggled to his feet. Limping over to the edge of the bridge, he leaned his upper body over the rail and let gravity take him. Falling seemed to take forever. Instinctively, his arms flailed looking for something to grasp onto or slow his descent. He plunged under the water, and the impact squeezed the air out of his lungs.
The water caressed his body in warm waves. Heated by the August sun, Lucas reveled in the refreshing dip. Once he rose to the surface and regained his breath, he took a second to enjoy the sudden bath. Arms moving back and forth and his good foot kicking, he struggled to swim on his back to the bank. After marching for days and charging into battle, he needed the wash.
Staying in the water, he hid among the thick vegetation, just in case they were determined to come after him. He prayed they would think dragging him back would be too much trouble. At least for now. Dodging the deserter patrols scouring the countryside would come later.
Near dark, he pulled himself onto the bank and struggled to his feet. Using a tree limb for a walking stick, he hobbled down the road.
Truthfully, he didn’t know what direction he headed. To avoid being stopped and forced to rejoin his company, he had to head in the opposite direction of the Confederate Army. A shiver worked its way down his spine, despite the summer heat. The wind fanned his wet clothing increasing his discomfort. It would have been warmer to stay in the water.
Maybe the misery of being wet clear down to his brogans was a blessing. It helped keep his mind off his thigh which felt like it had been lit on fire. Digging the ball out on the battlefield had been an act of desperation. What if he’d done more damage?
Due to his exhaustion and blood loss, he grew weaker with each passing mile. Gritting his teeth, he pushed on, testing his pain tolerance and endurance. The bandages he’d applied on the battlefield were now soaked with fresh blood. So much blood that it trickled down his leg, staining his gray trousers.
“You’re not going to die on the side of the road,” he ordered himself.
He’d have to put his plan to make it back to his home in Franklin, Tennessee on hold, not having the strength for a lengthy journey. Hell, he doubted he could last more than a few more miles.
Where should he hole up?
Scanning the road, he spied the first house he’d seen in a long time—a rundown cabin. The property looked neglected. Maybe it had belonged to a soldier who’d enlisted and had now left it unoccupied.
Praying that wasn’t the case, he staggered to the front door. “Please let some nice soul answer,” he murmured and knocked. His last burst of strength drained out of him and he sank to the ground.
Sophia quickly put her coat on over her nightgown. Who could be visiting at this hour? It had to be bad news. Pulse racing, she paused and looked out the kitchen window. She couldn’t see anyone—not even a horse.
Papa hadn’t made it to bed tonight. Instead he sprawled on the sofa, snoring as loud as a chugging train. If some ruffian wanted to take advantage of her, she doubted he would be of any help.
Holding her breath, she opened the door. A young man lay on the ground, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head and another around his right leg. His clothes wet as if he’d swum here instead of walked.
She knelt down. His eyes were closed. Had he passed out?
Pulse sounding in her ears, she tentatively touched his warm, pale cheek, and his eyes sprang open. Her heart fluttered at his mesmerizing gaze. His irises were the darkest green she had ever seen. Damp dark hair clung to his forehead. “Sir, let me help you.”
“Thank you,” he whispered. “My name’s Grady.”
He held out his arms and she pulled him to his feet. Seeing his grimace, her stomach tightened, but he bravely did not make a sound. Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, he put most of his weight on her. His six-foot frame bent over, she struggled to assist him into the house.
“I don’t mean to be a burden, miss,” he whispered.
“You don’t worry about that, Mr. Grady,” Sophia said. “I don’t mind taking care of you.” After all, tending his wounds was the right thing to do. Looking at the bloody bandage on his head and the soaked bandage on his leg turned her stomach.
She’d seen her share of blood over the years. But butchering a chicken was completely different from taking care of a man. She glanced over to Papa, wishing he would wake and assist her, but that wasn’t going to happen.
“I’ve been walking for a long time,” he said in a raspy voice. “Where am I?”
In my house. “Clark Springs.”
They didn’t have time for small talk. Blood ran down his leg, his skin seeming to pale by the minute. Her heart knotted and struggled to beat. If she didn’t hurry, he could bleed to death. He was in no condition to harm her, but he would scar her with a bitter memory for life if he passed in this house.
She looked up the stairs; it would be quite a struggle to get him up to the second story, likely they’d both tumble backward. No, he couldn’t make it to her room, and she didn’t want to tend to him out in the open where Papa could see. The best option seemed to be getting him into Papa’s room. He’d taken over the guest bedroom on the ground floor after Mama died. Drowning his sorrows in the bottle, he drank heavier than usual and didn’t want to fight his way up the stairs.
Back aching under the strain, she assisted Grady onto the bed.
Mr. Grady groaned, the sound going straight to her heart. Her attention went to his bloody leg. She’d have to take off his trousers to see to the wound. The thought sent nervous energy coursing through her veins.
As if reading her mind, he reached down and undid his belt buckle and then unbuttoned his coat and pulled down his suspenders. “That’s all I can do,” he muttered.
Hands shaking, she reached for the hem of his left leg, figuring it best to start with the one that wasn’t injured. Pushing the fabric down partway, she switched to the right leg, pulling the coarse gray cotton as easily as possible.
The young man lay completely still, his gaze on the ceiling, perhaps too embarrassed to look at her. When she finally tugged off his trousers, she realized he wasn’t wearing any underwear, his lower half naked, manhood and all.
She gulped, her cheeks burning. Eyeing him, she noticed a flush rising up his neck. Hurrying over to her chest of drawers, she pulled out a shawl and handed it to him. “You can cover yourself.”
Silently, he draped the shawl over his manhood and stomach. “Since we have to be this intimate,” he said, his voice pinched, “I think it is only proper I know your name, miss.”
An uneasy laugh bubbled up her throat. “You may call me Miss Carpenter.”
“All right, Miss Carpenter.”
Her gut clenched. Did the shot go clear through? Oh God, I can’t dig into him with a knife. “Is the—is it still in there?” she asked, her voice cracking.
“No, miss. I dug it out on the battlefield.”
Sophia’s eyes widened. “You dug it out?”
“Yes, miss, with my pocketknife. I didn’t want no doctor probing into me.”
Sophia bit her lip, unable to imagine what that must have been like. Pain sliced through her own leg at the idea.
“How is your head?” The bloody bandage did not look good, and head wounds could be dangerous.
“Nothing but a scratch. It stopped bleeding. Just have to take care of my limb.”
“I-uh I’m not sure what to do.” Sophia pressed a hand to her chest and willed her heart to keep beating. “I mean, I know I need to get the bleeding to stop. I—”
“You know how to sew good?” he asked, cutting her off.
“Yes, sir. I’ve done a lot of mending, but I’ve never sewn flesh.” She closed her eyes as she heard the words come out of her mouth. Sew flesh?
“Guess you gotta learn sometime. Go get your needle and thread.”
Am I really going to
do this?
“Hurry now,” Mr. Grady’s strained voice snapped her out of her shock.
“Yes, um, I’ll be right back.”
Grabbing her sewing basket and one of Papa’s bottles of whiskey, she returned to the bedroom.
Mr. Grady took the bottle from her hands, drank a long pull, and then passed it back to her. “Pour some on the wound before you start sewing.”
Sophia’s insides tightened, knotting on top of one another. She didn’t want to hurt him…the first man to come into her life for longer than five minutes. A tall, handsome man with thick dark hair and lean muscle.
His eyes narrowed, his square jaw set. “Go on now.”
Bile shot up her throat and she swallowed to force it back down. Vomiting is not an option. Taking a sip of alcohol straight out of the bottle, she cringed as it burned a path down her throat to her belly.
Mr. Grady arched an eyebrow but did not say a word.
She poured some of the moonshine on his wound, his leg jerked, and he inhaled sharply.
She handed the bottle back to him. “You’re going to need this.”
“It is going to hurt something awful.” His tone carried a warning and she braced herself.
A tremor wracked his body and he raised the bottle to his lips. “Wish I was as drunk as your father for this.”
Me, too. Clenching her teeth, she threaded her needle. Pulling up a chair to the bed, she sat down, her upper body trembling. She couldn’t stitch him up without a steady hand.
“If you can’t do this, I’m going to die.” Desperation pierced his voice.
He must be in such pain, and sewing the wound would hurt him worse. She took a deep breath and as she exhaled, her shuddering came to an end. Sewing flesh would be difficult, but she couldn’t have him die. She couldn’t handle having his death on her conscience.
“Feel free to use any language you see fit,” she said. “I’ve heard it all from Papa.” She pulled the flesh around his wound together and pierced his skin with the needle, forcing it through his flesh.
Mr. Grady winced, tears leaking from the corners of his scrunched eyes.
She began to sew very carefully, making each stitch strong and in the right place. Using a simple stitch, she looped and knotted every three stitches so the sutures would have less chance of unraveling.
He moaned through his teeth and then cursed.
Trying to block out his loud curses, she focused on the gruesome work at hand. She wasn’t going to do this twice.
Her lungs constricted more with each passing second until she could barely breathe. When she finished, she looked up at her patient. The poor man lay unconscious. After taking a peek at his manhood, she covered him with a blanket and let him sleep. His cock was larger than she expected. How would that ever fit inside a woman? Swishing her tongue around her mouth, she generated saliva and then swallowed. Babies had been born for centuries so the manhood would fit somehow.
The intimate image lingered in her mind. Her heart raced; it had been wrong of her to look, but he’d never know. If Papa had his way, she’d never know anything about that part of male anatomy.
She smiled, pleased with her little secret and with her sewing. Sitting back in her chair, she sucked in a deep breath and then let out a long sigh. Gradually her adrenaline faded to an overwhelming exhaustion. But she didn’t want to sleep, almost afraid this was all a strange dream and in the morning Mr. Grady would be gone. Fearful he would need medical attention in the middle of the night, she kept the lamp burning, content with watching the rise and fall of his chest.
Sweat dampened his forehead. The sheen made him even more appealing, more manly. His uniform shirt appeared soaked, as if he had been splashed with a bucket of water.
He could have a fever. Standing, she softly touched his cheek.
Yes, very hot. She withdrew her hand and walked over to the wash basin, poured in some more water, and wetted a washcloth.
She wanted to cool his forehead, but it was wrapped in cloth. Now soaked with sweat, the bandage had lost its value. She should get him a fresh one. With her sewing scissors, she carefully cut the bandage off and looked at the head wound for the first time. There was dried blood on the left side, but it didn’t look bad. Rubbing the rag across his brow, she carefully avoided his wound. After several passes with the cool cloth, his lids parted.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, peeking up at her with green eyes.
Laughing, she shook her head. Her face and hands were darkened by the sun, and her squat stature far from picturesque. “That is just your fever talking.”
“No, Miss Carpenter,” he said. “The lamplight highlights your rich brown hair. You have a natural, earthy beauty.”
An earthy beauty? She liked the sound of that. After dipping the rag into the water again, she continued to try to bring down his temperature. Once she got his fever to break, he should be in the clear.
“You’re quite handsome yourself, Mr. Grady.”
“Thank you, miss,” he said, flashing her a bone-melting smile. “But right now I probably look as handsome as a corpse.”
No. Mr. Grady looked swoon-worthy to her, bandages and all. Any man within a certain age range would look pretty good to her. However, this man far exceeded her expectations.
“I need to get you out of that wet shirt,” she said. Blushing, she realized how that sounded. Without his blouse he’d be completely naked. “I don’t need you catching pneumonia.”
“Yes, miss.” Mr. Grady struggled to a sitting position and peeled off his shirt, handing it to her.
Draping it over the back of her chair, she hoped it would dry.
She’d expected Mr. Grady to remain conscious for a little conversation, but he fell into a deep sleep. Poor man probably needed every minute to recuperate. Hovering close to him, she held her breath. She touched his forehead to check his temperature. His skin felt lukewarm. His fever had subsided. That thin blanket would provide little warmth against a chilled body.
In his sleep he had rolled over and lay on the far side of the bed. There was plenty of room for her to join him. They wouldn’t touch. But the heat from her body would help raise his temperature. It seemed the best option short of running out to the barn for a stinky, itchy horse blanket to keep him warm.
Uneasiness grew in her gut. Lying next to a naked man, even if she remained fully clothed, would brand her a sinner. If people found out, they’d start gossiping. If Papa found out…. She gulped. No, it is the right thing to do. It is only for his health. The lengthy argument with herself came to an end. She didn’t care what other people thought, especially her papa. Before she could change her mind, she lay on top of the covers. Their bodies did not touch, but she felt the cool heat of him. Being this close to a man gave her a very pleasant sensation. Closing her eyes, she focused on his masculine energy. Sharing her bed gave her a delightful thrill; right now she didn’t feel alone.
She’d asked for a man to land in her lap. Was Mr. Grady the answer to her prayers, or would he merely be on his way as soon as he regained enough strength to travel?
When Papa found out about the Confederate soldier in his bed, he might decide that answer for him. Her heart shivered, recalling one of many dark days in her past. Papa fired at the last man who tried to call on her. Two warning shots and the man turned his horse around and spurred him into a gallop. Would Papa run Mr. Grady off? Or would he kill him where he lay?
Chapter Three
Lucas woke in the middle of the night. He blinked, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dim light. The lantern glowing on the bedside table kept him from lying in darkness. A young woman slept next to him in the bed, on her side, facing toward him. She lay on top of the covers in a simple, violet walking skirt and cream colored blouse, the muslin apron stained with patches of blood—his blood. Her chin dipped down, directing his gaze to her perky bosom and pink lips.
What was her name? It started with a C—Miss Carpenter. A sturdy name in his opinion,
and it fit her well. Not many women would have been able to sew him up. Once she’d set her mind to the task, she’d proceeded as calmly as a professional nurse.
He found her inner strength very alluring. Those delicate flowers his schoolmates always chased never appealed to him. With his horse farm, he needed a woman who could do more than keep house and entertain guests. Taking care of all those horses took a lot of hard work and he required a woman able do her share.
He coughed, and quickly covered his mouth, not wanting to wake her.
Her lids fluttered open. Those big blue eyes stopped his heart.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, fighting a yawn.
“Better, thanks to you, miss. Of course my leg hurts like—well, it hurts, but I’ll manage.”
“Good. I’m sure I can get you some moonshine for the pain. Papa has plenty. And remember you agreed to call me Miss Carpenter, Mr. Grady.”
He smiled. “So I did, Miss Carpenter. I’m comfortable if you would like to go to bed.”
“I’m in bed.”
Maybe sleep clouded her brain. Holding back a laugh he said, “I mean your own bed.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks turned pink. “I don’t mind staying in here with you,” she said quickly, seeming a little uneasy.
He licked his parched lips. Normally lying next to a strange man would make a woman anxious. “Is something wrong? I don’t want a beautiful woman worried about me.”
She blushed. “I guess you haven’t seen too many women lately.”
“You’d guess wrong,” he said. “You are beautiful, Miss Carpenter. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
A smile inched across her face. “Thank you, Mr. Grady.”
He nodded, his heart palpitating. “Now that we’ve got that settled what are you worried about?”
Miss Carpenter let out a long sigh that knifed his core. Her smile vanished and her eyes held sorrow. “I’m worried about you. I’m worried about me. I’m worried about Papa. I’m afraid he’ll shoot you the minute he sees you. He’ll finish what the Yanks started.”
Soldier in Her Lap Page 2