Little Love Affair (Southern Romance Series, #1)

by Lexy Timms

  When he peeled away the bandages, it was all Jasper could do not to show his horror. In one short year, he had seen enough to know what despair could do to a man. He knew that Horace must believe he could recover. When he was lucid, no matter how weak, Jasper would be as confident as any priest. It had become difficult to know when Horace might emerge from his fevered dreams.

  The wound was growing puffy, flushed and angry, and Jasper swallowed at the hint of red lines beginning to trace away from it. He knew of that, as well, and his memories were laced with horror. He had seen men put maggots on their own flesh to eat away the rot, and balked at it. Now, he realized, he was desperate enough to try. He would try anything.

  His hands shook as he cleaned the wound, and he realized he was making babbling noises, the same sort one might make to an infant, cooing and murmuring as Horace tossed his head in pain. It was a small mercy that he was half-asleep, for Jasper must scrape the wound of anything that looked infected, pouring boiled water and laying the yarrow leaves neatly before binding it once more.

  He wondered what prayer Clara’s mother used with comfrey, and winced. He could not think of Clara, not when the very image of her smile set his pulse racing. He was hard in a moment and ready to stride down the hill, consequences be damned, to find her and claim another kiss, and another, and another.

  Dammit.

  If it had been the right thing to leave her there, the honorable thing, why did he regret it so much? That was the sort of thing the pastors preached about. It had made sense, once, just like all the oaths he swore to defend his people from the Union. None of it—none of it—made sense any longer.

  A low cry of pain caught his attention, and he looked back from the fire to see Horace’s face screwed up in a grimace. If it weren’t for Horace, Jasper reflected, he would not be alive for any of it to make sense in the first place.

  He did not even remember where they had been when they met. It was some useless fight, not on one of the grand battlegrounds history would remember. Not, of course, that glory seemed all that glorious any longer. Even one fight taught you that no war song came close to the truth of it. Still, his family didn’t know that, and as he lay bleeding on the sodden ground, gasping for air, Jasper thought that he would have liked them to think he died with honor, in a grand meeting of two armies. It might give them some measure of comfort, perhaps.

  He first saw Horace through the smoke and a low morning mist, and Jasper could not forget the stab of fear when he first saw the man’s shape emerge from the haze. Horace was young, clear-eyed even though he was streaked with blood, gazing around the battlefield as if his soul had broken in two. But his hands were still wrapped around the barrel of a musket, a bloody bayonet affixed to the end, and when his eyes met Jasper’s for the first time, Jasper was quite sure he was meeting the gaze of a Union soldier. He was sure he was going to die, and he was glad that his family would not know he had survived the battle, only to be cut down while he lay wounded.

  All that was left, it occurred to him, was to appeal to whatever honor a Union soldier might have. His fingers fumbled beneath the opening to his shirt, and the man’s eyes flickered. He relaxed when Jasper pulled out a silver cross, closing one numb hand around it.

  “Make it quick,” he whispered.

  At that, at last, the man moved. The bayonet was dropped, and he knelt at Jasper’s side, pushing the ruins of his coat aside. His fingers probed at the wound, eliciting a cry of pain, but the man only nodded, pleased by what he saw.

  “You’re lucky,” he said simply, and Jasper managed a laugh that was half-gasp. “The wound in your arm is shallow enough, and this one ripped the skin, but not all the way to your bowels. You’ll live, if we can get you to the camp.”

  “They’re gone,” Jasper croaked back.

  “No.” The man shook his head. “They’re not far. Come.”

  How far he coaxed Jasper that morning, Jasper still did not know. His legs shook with exhaustion, and he retched with pain more than once, but when the mists had cleared, they were in the camp proper. Jasper vaguely remembered a beleaguered nurse trying to tell Horace that there were not enough beds, and yet the next thing he knew, he was on a thin mattress and there was sun on his face.

  A thin, old army blanket felt like paradise to him, and it was only later—watching the others in the camp—that he realized how strange it was to have a blanket at all. To have food, as he always had. Even saving Horace’s life now, Jasper thought, could not repay that debt, and it was becoming clear that Jasper could not even do that much.

  He must ask for help, and he could not. To walk into that town was to consign himself to death, and that would do nothing for Horace, and there was only one person he could trust. His steps carried him out of the cabin and down the hill before he could think, across the half-threshed fields and to the shadow of the farmhouse. There was no guard dog to sound the alarm, and Jasper had the faint urge to bang on the door and tell them that they should have protection. How would they know if dangerous men were crossing their fields at night?

  It was more amusing if one considered that their idea of dangerous men was likely Confederate soldiers. Unless it was less amusing.

  Jasper stared up at the windows. One of them would be Clara’s, for in a house this big there would be no reason to put the sisters in the same room. The loss of the family hit him afresh. It always ran under the surface, in the quiet grief of the girls’ mother, and in the steely determination Clara had acquired far too young, but here, in the empty shell of what should be a bustling family house, Jasper at last saw what they had lost.

  He wondered if he could grieve for them. Was it allowed? His comrades would think him a traitor for taking the charity of a Yankee family and leaving them in peace, their home unburned. The north had betrayed them. He heard it often and had spoken it just as frequently. His comrades knew other betrayals, even if they would not admit to it. More men than Jasper had been left to die on the battlefields for lack of care. Others had been pulled from their homes with no one left behind to tend to the fields.

  Still they fought one another, citizens just trying to survive. What had this war made of them?

  Jasper had lost everything he thought he knew: his loyalty, his family, his homestead. If the only thing he had left was to keep his promise to Clara, then he would keep it. He turned to leave, his tread heavy, and a voice spoke from the darkness.

  “Why did you come?”

  Clara stepped into the light, and he swallowed. She could not know that the moonlight turned her nightdress sheer, and that he could see the outline of her body beneath the thin fabric. She likely thought herself well covered, a bow modestly tied at her neck and her sleeves long. He swallowed hard.

  She had been waiting to see what he would do, he saw. His promise warred with honesty.

  “The fever’s not coming down,” Jasper said at last. He did not say that he had decided not to ask her; she had seen it.

  “I’ll go into town for your friend tomorrow,” she said simply, and Jasper’s heart turned over in his chest.

  “I cannot ask you to do that. I don’t have money to pay for medicine, and you...”

  “You have worked in our fields for a pittance,” she observed calmly. “I think perhaps you are owed our help.” Clouds scudded across the moon, throwing flickering shadows on her face, but she was very still.

  “That is not why you offered.”

  “You know why I offered,” she said simply. She was already walking back to the house, but she paused with her hand on the latch of the door. “Because you are going to keep your promise,” she said quietly, and she slipped inside without a goodbye.

  It was only when he reached the cabin once more that it occurred to Jasper to wonder if she had been waiting for him.

  Chapter 10

  Clara tightened the strap at the wagon hitch, hissing as a blister broke open. Another sleepless night. She was getting clumsy. Her mother would exclaim over her hands later a
nd tell Clara that she should not do this work, but both of them knew there was no alternative. Clara liked to think that Millicent even approved, in her own way. The woman was hardened to farming life, always rising early, capable of handling a shotgun and butchering meat. She might have hoped for a softer life for her children, but she knew that the world was rarely as kind as that.

  She climbed into the driver’s seat of the wagon and surveyed the back. A meager portion of vegetables and early grain rested there. Perhaps it would be enough for Clara to get the medicine and little enough that her mother would not notice the lack. Clara grimaced and snapped the reins. She should leave before she thought much more about what she was doing.

  The drive into town was a long one, however, and there was little else to think on. She was saving a man’s life, Clara told herself. No one deserved to die of a festering wound. Much to her surprise, her conscience seemed easy with that. Apparently, her conscience was not overly concerned with the Confederacy.

  Unfortunately, that left her mind free once more, and much as she tried to stay disciplined, Clara found her thoughts drifting to Jasper. Had he expected her to be outside last night? Surely not. The way his eyes had lingered on her form, she knew that he would not have been able to stare at the house so calmly. The naked desire in his eyes was a mirror of the lust that had driven her outside and a few steps across the field before she had seen him emerge from the forest.

  It was well that he had arrived, and that he had carried concerns beyond their tryst in the woods. She had been willing to cast propriety to the wind. Had she met him in the trees, only a nightgown for a covering, and offered herself to him. She was quite sure he would have taken all that she offered, and more. The thought of it made her flush, and Clara tried to hold her head high.

  It was intoxicating, the feeling itself just as seductive as the press of Jasper’s lips and the hard planes of his chest. She shifted in her seat, glad that no one had come with her into town. She could not be still since last yesterday—irritable and restless, her entire body seeming to burn.

  “What’s gotten into you?” her mother had demanded over dinner. “Do you have a fever?”

  A mother’s intuition might have made her suspicious, but even she would not guess the truth. Indeed, Clara reflected bitterly, no one would. She had always been a headstrong child, willful and much despaired over by schoolmistresses and relatives alike, and her insistence on running the farm by herself was hardly unexpected, as unconventional as it might be. But who would guess she would find herself half-naked under a willow tree with a southern soldier?

  No one except Clara, who had been lost the moment she saw him.

  She should turn her head from this madness, but the sun in the sky and the birds in the trees all seemed to thrill with this new knowledge—a world beyond what she had known, more beautiful than it had been yesterday.

  Even the township looked more cheerful. Women moved to and fro in their heavy dresses, and Clara felt the familiar stab of notoriety. Since she began working, she had sewed herself dresses with close sleeves and straight skirts, fashionable dresses being too likely to be caught in machinery. She knew that she looked like a servant, but she had become so accustomed to her attire that she had not even thought to change her gown. Keeping her head down, Clara tied the wagon to a hitch outside the pharmacy and made her way into the cool, dusty shop.

  “Miss Dalton!”

  “Mister Jeffries.” Clara felt herself smile. The Jeffries family had served Knox Township as pharmacists for years, and as the elder, Mr. Jeffries, grew older, his son was taking over the business. Streaks of grey showed in his hair now, but he moved confidently, with the calm demeanor that comforted his patients.

  “Is someone ill? Not your mother, I hope?”

  “One of our workers is injured,” Clara explained. “He’s too proud to come in himself, as he hasn’t the money, but I fear the wound is going bad. They tell me he has a fever, and willow bark won’t bring it down.”

  “Let me mix something up for you.” The pharmacist smiled at her. “You’re a good woman to look out for your workers, Miss Dalton. Truly your father’s daughter.”

  Clara tried to smile as the man began pulling jars down from the wall. She watched as he began to grind and mix materials and tried not to think of how ashamed her father would be by what she was doing. The family had so little money, and this was how she was using it. He would be furious.

  Or would he? For the first time, she felt a stab of hope. Her father had never been much of a one for talking. What did she know of what went on behind his solemn demeanor? Perhaps he too would have taken pity on two men who offered no violence and only wanted to work for their keep.

  “Miss Dalton?”

  “Mmm?” Clara realized that she had been staring off into space. “I apologize.”

  “No matter. You look a bit flushed from the sun. Take as long as you wish in the shop.” Mr. Jeffries patted a package at his side. “That’ll be two cents.”

  Clara accepted the package with a smile, but she wanted to duck her head in shame. The price was far too low for what was in the package, she was sure of it. Only Mr. Jeffries’s open smile kept her from running out of the shop. Perhaps it was kindness to the farm worker, she thought miserably. Or perhaps, her mind whispered, everyone in town truly did know how poorly the farm was doing. She had come into the shop dressed like a maid.

  However, she could not run. She did not have enough wealth for pride any longer. She smiled and thanked him, sliding the money across the counter as though all was well.

  Out in the sunshine, she considered the produce in the back of the cart. She had no need of the funds any longer, but she should bring it to the market nonetheless; a few more pence in the jar would not go amiss. She placed the package neatly in the back seat and was just climbing up when a voice stopped her.

  “Clara? Clara Dalton?”

  Clara turned and gave a delighted laugh.

  “Johnny Benson! Oh, it’s good to see you. Oh, you look so solemn. It’s been...” The words died on her lips. Johnny’s face was screwed up with pity, and Clara remembered, suddenly, exactly where she had seen him last: marching out of town at Solomon’s side. Johnny’s coat was faded and patched, and his face was thinner than she remembered, but he was standing here, back again. There was pity in his eyes.

  She knew very clearly what that meant.

  “Clara?”

  The words seemed to be coming from very far away. Clara felt a hand wrapped around her waist, another wrapped around her own fingers, and she was leaning against this man in the middle of the street.

  “Is...do you have...” It took every ounce of control she had to stand on her two feet and draw herself up. She met his eyes, wide and horrified. “Do you have his body with you?”

  “No.” He was looking at her warily, unnerved by her sudden attempt at composure. “We didn’t want to send a letter until we knew what had happened to him.”

  “And?” She could not bear to know, and yet she had to or she would go mad.

  “We still don’t. I am so sorry. Miss Dalton...” He took the hat from his head and twisted it in his hands, retreating into formality. “We looked and looked. I knew you would want to know. But we never found him, and when they told us who they had for prisoners... I don’t know if he gave them a false name. They demanded money sometimes, and he would never want you to have to—”

  “I see.” Clara turned away, hope and grief tearing at her chest. Solomon could still be alive, and yet, for the very first time, she truly believed that she would never see her brother again. “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Miss Dalton, could I perhaps accompany you back to the farm?”

  “No!” She had to be alone. “No. Thank you very kindly, but no. Thank you, Mister Benson, for the truth. You have done enough. I will tell my mother.”

  “Miss Dalton...”

  “Thank you, Mister Benson.” Only the faint threads of etiquette were
keeping her from collapsing on the paving stones. If she looked into his eyes, she would be lost. Clara untied the wagon as quickly as she could, lips trembling as her numb fingers fumbled on the reins, and then she accepted his help to step up into the seat and drove away without meeting his gaze again.

  It was only on the country roads that she broke down at last, pressing her hand against her mouth and sobbing at last for the brother she had lost. Her brother was gone from her. Gone, and he was never coming back.

  Chapter 11

  Jasper caught the glint of her dress in the trees around noon. He smiled, his heart leaping in the same mix of joy and sadness he had become accustomed to since the last afternoon. He knew he was staring like a fool, an idiotic grin plastered on his face, before he noticed that her head hung, and her shoulders were slumped. He frowned and got to his feet. She was walking, he thought, as if she was lost—as if she saw nothing around her. He saw her stumble over something and look around herself in confusion.

  “What’re you looking at?” Horace’s voice came out in a croak.

  “Clara’s back.”

  “What?” The man pushed himself up on his elbows, brow furrowed. “What did you say?”

  “Don’t be angry,” Jasper spared him a worried glance. He wanted to run to Clara, take her in his arms, and yet he knew what his friend would say if he knew. “She’s the farmer’s daughter I mentioned. She went to get you medicine.”

  “Clara?” Horace gasped the name and slumped back against the bed. “Jasper, tell me this is a joke.”

  In his friend’s accusing eyes, Jasper could see everything his friend must think of him: a turncoat, fraternizing with Yankees, taking aid from them and speaking their names with kindness. Had Horace seen his smile? Jasper knew he could not hide his love, not for a moment. Shame wormed in his gut, and a furious pride as well. How could he be ashamed of loving a woman like Clara?

  Yet he would not let Horace’s pride get the man killed.

  “I wasn’t going to let you die,” Jasper pleaded. “Horace, couldn’t. When you meet her, you’ll see that she—”