She bobbed a nod, gaze straying to the man riding shotgun.
“Pearl,” said that one.
“Travis,” she replied, trying to keep her voice level.
“It’s been a long time.”
“Indeed it has.” Her weary mind scrolled back through the months—years? Yes, nearly two—since she’d last seen her cousin. In this moment, however, she could not even summon gladness for it. Nothing but a faint surprise.
“I was most regretful to hear about your brothers,” he said, his voice still subdued.
She swallowed, then nodded again, harder this time. Neither man got down, but the driver fidgeted, scratching his beard and fiddling with the reins. “Miss,” he said finally, “reckon we got to impose upon your hospitality for a short time. There’s a couple of wounded Yankees in the back of the wagon what needs nursing care. We’ll be bringing more tomorrow.”
“We don’t have room. Or the wherewithal.”
“Well, we was thinking you’d be saying that. Captain has authorized us to help with victuals. You just need to give ’em floor space.”
For a moment the night tilted around Pearl, and a hot, heavy wave of nausea overtook her. Then she pulled a long, slow breath, and the world righted itself again.
Mostly.
“Why aren’t you asking me to come down and help with nursing, there?”
Travis shot her a glance from under his hat brim, visible even in the dark. “Didn’t figure you’d agree.”
She huffed a laugh. “You’d be right. And I will not open my home to the likes of these either.”
“You ain’t being given a choice,” Travis said. “Every house in the area is prevailed upon to host the wounded or prisoners. We have hundreds of wounded, Pearl. Maybe more like thousands.”
An ugly word came to her tongue, but she bit it back. Why were only men allowed to curse?
A heavy step and scrape heralded the open door behind her. “We’ll take them,” came Pa’s voice from over her shoulder, steady and mild.
“Pa,” she whispered, but his hand came down on her shoulder.
“Shh. Good Book tells us to be kind to our enemies.”
There’d be no arguing with him, but her throat burned. That kindness would be required directly of her hand, not of Pa’s, whose every step was a trial and had been for many a year.
But she’d not dare complain.
Morning sun slanted through a window, falling across his face and adding to the general agony in his body. Josh grimaced, instantly sorry for even the small motion that came with sudden wakefulness.
So he’d survived the night.
Was he supposed to be thankful for that turn of events?
With sunlight still stabbing his eyes, he squinted, trying to see where he was. The quiet confirmed that what he recalled of a nighttime wagon ride must not have been a dream—and the absence of men’s screams and groans was a decided relief, for sure—but where exactly had they brought him?
A plain room inside a cabin or house, looked like. A single curtain at the window, lifting and falling with a faint breeze. A straight-backed chair, a narrow bed—where someone else lay, a man’s hand outflung over the edge, still grimy and bloodied—and a small washstand. A blue dress hanging from a hook near the corner, and another small table behind the door holding a hairbrush and various female accoutrements.
Bits and pieces of impressions, too fragmented to even be called memory, filed through his thoughts. Lamplight, the twang of Tennessee mountain voices, first of a man, then the sharper accent of a woman. The comfort of a blanket covering a hard floor that blessedly did not jostle and bounce beneath him.
“Prisoners?” He remembered one voice, the woman’s.
“No fear. They ain’t in any shape to try an escape … die trying.”
At this point, Josh would rather try, and die.
His pa’s voice came swift on the heels of that thought. “That’s the easy way out, the coward’s way, Son. And you ain’t a coward.”
Josh rolled his head back and forth but slowly. Could it be there were some things even Pa didn’t know?
The hardness of the floor finally forced him to move—that, and an ever-increasing baser need. He had to get up, find a privy—
Agony stabbed through his arm and up into his shoulder, drawing a gasp from his throat and pinning him down. He lay still, breathing hard for a moment, then lifted his head to look. His chest and shoulders, bare. Bandages swathing his elbow and downward, but—
Wait, something there wasn’t right.
He tried lifting his arm, flexing his hand. Thought he flexed his hand. But—the bandages ended several inches below the elbow. And where the rest of his forearm and hand should have been—had been—only empty air.
Great God in heaven! Gracious God … no! Please no …
A crushing wave of blackness rushed over him, and he fell gladly into it.
Pearl could delay no longer the unhappy task of looking in on the men taking up space in her bedroom.
She’d heard a rustling, and knowing a little of what to expect, fetched a pitcher of water, a towel, and a tin cup before setting her jaw and heading for the room with firm steps.
Heart pounding—without account, that, except—they’re Yankees, for the love of all that’s holy—she nudged the door open and peeked around it. No movement. The man they’d laid out on the floor over to the side lay sprawled as if he’d been in a fight and lost, with the one in her bed in much the same position. She peered closer to make sure both were breathing.
The one in her bed had a round but strong face, fair hair sticking at odd angles, and a short beard curling in a manner that appeared half-boyish, half-rakish, but mostly foolish with how his mouth hung open. He definitely still breathed.
The one on the floor … Pearl tiptoed closer. Auburn hair of a shade just missing fiery red fell in an untidy wave over his forehead. Beard of a more vivid hue covering a jaw also hanging slack.
And he too was definitely still breathing.
The waxy pallor of the man’s face, with fresh-looking beads of sweat, made her frown and peer closer. Long, dark lashes lying against sharp cheekbones and a scattering of freckles standing out against his pale skin gave the similar impression of boyishness.
Both men so young, so ordinary-looking in sleep, she could not help but be reminded of her brothers.
Gritting her teeth, she slammed the door on that thought, then peered closer at the one on the floor. Fresh blood seeped through the bandages at the end of his arm. Travis had told her last night that all she needed was to change the bandages when she could, and keep the wound clean, but …
“Miss?”
Pearl flinched toward the owner of that voice, rusty from sleep, and found herself staring into the wide blue eyes of the man on the bed—her bed, but she wouldn’t think about that either. He seemed as startled as she, though, and gaped for a moment before adding, “Could I—do you have any water, miss?”
She jerked a nod, then with the barest glance at the man still sprawled at her feet, stepped toward the washstand and unburdened her arms. This was, after all, why she’d brought the cup and pitcher.
She filled the cup about half-full and approached the bed, as the man there levered himself up a little, grimacing. At least he was still properly clothed, unlike the bare-chested man on the floor. But she supposed they’d had to remove his shirt because of the amputation.
He took the cup from her and gulped down its contents, then held it out to her. “More, please?”
Her throat burned at the plaintive note in his voice. With another nod, she refilled the cup then brought it back. He was only slightly less desperate the second time.
“Please,” he said again, as she filled the cup a third time, “where am I?”
Pearl pressed her lips together. “In Tennessee.”
Doubt filled his blue eyes, as if he wanted to consider that the foolery she half meant it to be. She exhaled, set her fist on her hip, and
went on. “We are the MacFarlane family. We live just a little southeast of Chattanooga, about as far south as you can get and not be in Georgia yet. And—we’ve been charged with taking care of y’all.”
The blue eyes flickered. Was that—fear? Dismay at the least? “Well. I thank you, Miss MacFarlane. Or is that Missus?”
He pronounced his words strangely, and thank came out as tank.
“Miss,” she answered firmly.
His head bobbed, and he sank back against the quilt. “I am—”
A sudden gasp from the floor startled them both, and Pearl whirled aside, clutching her skirts.
The man there lay breathing hard, eyes wide and dark, teeth bared in a grimace. One hand clutched the blanket beneath him and the other—oh, the other arm—clamped across his middle. His gaze was riveted to her, an echo of the fear, pain, and inquiry she’d seen in the other, but far more fervently.
“Who are you?” he whispered. “And where am I?”
Flippant answers would not serve this one. Pearl scooted toward the washstand and refilled the cup she’d taken from the other man, then sank to her knees on the floor beside him. “Here,” she said, keeping her voice soft, “I expect you’ll also need some of this.”
He gaped at her as if she’d just spoken some foreign tongue, and she held the cup a little closer.
His hand released the blanket and came out in a movement that could only be described as flailing, slapping hard against the floor, palm down. The muscles in his arm corded as he pushed himself upright, groaning, and rolled to a half-sitting position, where he stayed, gasping again for breath. “Good—Lord—in heaven,” he panted, then groped for the cup.
“Yes, He is,” she murmured without thought, putting the cup in his hand, awkwardly sliding closer to help brace him as he swayed.
Predictably, he gulped the water. She took the cup and refilled it before he could ask. He downed the second one similarly, then the cup went tumbling as he flailed again to remain sitting.
“Easy now,” she soothed, again without thinking.
“I need—up,” he gasped. “To—the privy.”
“Hold on,” she said. “Let me get help. Can you sit more to this side? There, like that. Yes.”
Travis had anticipated and instructed her on this need as well. Ignoring the heat blooming across her face, Pearl helped him situate himself on his other hip, bracing this time against the good arm and hand, then scrambled to her feet and beat a hasty retreat from the room. “Clem!” she bellowed in the direction of the upstairs. “Get down here, now!”
She stood there, the morning light falling across her like a glory beam in a painting he’d once seen. Angelic, despite a gray calico dress with simple, practical skirts, brown hair escaping a sober knot, and eyes somehow severe and pitying at the same time.
He did not want her pity. He did not want her help, or anyone else’s. He simply wanted to be able to get up and walk outside on his own.
And after that, return to his regiment and the war and everything else he’d signed up for. Because this house, snug as it seemed, was not that.
A scrawny, gangly boy somewhere in his midteens entered the room, found a chamber pot, and with the woman gone from the room, helped him use it. After, she returned, offered him another drink, then once he was settled again, lifted his arm to inspect the bandage. He took the moment to study her.
Plain, up close. Tendrils of hair curling wildly about her face, eyes shadowed, mouth pressed in a line. High cheekbones and slightly hollowed cheeks.
Then her gaze snapped to his, green as the leaves on the trees. Shimmering like deep water. As startled as they were startling.
Her expression closed, and she looked away. “I’ll need to change this later today. Try to keep still for now. And if you want for anything else, just holler.”
She rose from her knees and made to leave.
“Wait.” He could hardly get the word out.
She hesitated, skirts swaying.
“Thank”—he coughed, tried again—“thank you, Miss—”
“MacFarlane,” she said after a slight hesitation, softly, and was gone.
Standing at the top of the porch steps, Pearl clenched her hands inside her wadded-up apron and glared at her cousin, who faced her from beside the wagon holding more wounded soldiers. “And I’m telling you, Travis. These men need beds, and we haven’t enough.”
Travis pulled off his hat, raked a hand through sweat-dampened brown hair, and narrowed his pale blue eyes. “Blast it, Pearl. We need help. There are too many, and even our own men are mostly lying outdoors on the ground. Beds are the least of my worries, here.”
“I won’t just put them on the floor, I don’t care who they are.” She chewed her lip. “We do have extra beds upstairs. If … if I had help moving them to the sitting room …”
He huffed. “Fine, then. I can do that.” He gestured to his driver to climb down before turning back to Pearl. “Where’s Clem?”
“Out wandering, hunting relics of battle, I’m sure.”
But amazingly enough, the boy emerged from the barn. Obviously he’d seen the wagon coming and hung around out of curiosity.
He peered inside the conveyance as he walked past, then at Travis, shaggy locks of dark hair falling over his blue eyes. “More Yankees?”
“Yep,” their cousin said before Pearl could reply.
He stopped, looking from one to the other. “Why?”
“Everyone hereabouts is being asked to take them in,” Travis said. “Like I told you last night, you’ll help Pearl and make no complaints about it.”
Clem rolled his eyes but made no further comment. He might be tall as Travis now but didn’t yet outweigh him and doubtless knew their cousin could still whup him in a fair fight. Pearl bit back a smile. It was rare enough these days that she had the upper hand with her younger brother. “Take Travis and Mister Jones up to the attic and help them bring down the extra beds.”
While the men accomplished that, Pearl set herself to rearranging the sitting room, clearing space. Her brothers’ beds, they’d been. One wide enough for two men, but the others more narrow, as they’d fought and kicked and determined they needed less space as they grew in stature, and Pa had directed them in building their own.
The ticks were dusty but would do. Linens might be more of a problem. They’d given so much to the war effort already….
They got the larger bed and two smaller ones set up in the sitting room, and one bed frame remained. Pearl directed the men to set it up in her own bedroom and to put the man with the amputated arm into that one. The man winced and groaned at being moved but did not open his eyes.
His companion, however, gave her the barest smile and nod, the boyish look once more wrenching at her heart.
She hardened herself to such frivolous feelings and went to see about the others getting settled.
They’d jammed four men in that wagon bed—four, with wounds varying from ordinary gunshots—if there was such a thing—to the loss of another limb, this time a leg. And there was one sack of beans. One.
As Travis and his driver, Mr. Jones, went out to the wagon the last time, Pearl stomped after them. “How am I supposed to feed all these men on one sack of beans?”
Her cousin’s mouth thinned. “It was all we could spare right now. I’ll bring you more.”
“More like you expect Clem to hunt, even with all the game chased out of the woods.”
Travis didn’t bother denying it. Pearl caught his quick grimace as he turned and climbed up onto the wagon. He retrieved his rifle from the floorboard and flashed her a rueful glance.
With a quick dip of his head, Mr. Jones shook out the reins and clucked to the horses.
“I won’t forget this, Travis Bledsoe!” she yelled after, as the wagon rattled away.
No answer. As she knew there wouldn’t be. She turned and stomped back up onto the porch then stopped. Leaned on the post beside the steps. Made herself breathe in, breathe out.<
br />
Lord God in heaven, help me. I can’t do this.
I cannot.
Another breath in and out.
“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”
The words floated through her mind, echoing deep in her heart, bringing an ache to her throat.
“If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.”
Well. That she could live with.
Though it was the hardest thing she felt she’d ever done, she put one foot in front of the other and went back into the house.
“I should have given you my bed,” Pa said, watching her bustle around the living room.
“Nonsense,” Pearl said.
She’d come back in to find him settled in his favorite chair, which she’d tucked against the wall next to the hearth, situated between the kitchen and the rest of the main room. He leaned on his cane, looking at the array of beds in what was formerly his sitting area.
Pa could no more climb the stairs to the attic, which once belonged to all her brothers but she now occupied, than they could fly to the moon. And he knew it. So where else was he expecting to sleep?
“It’s all right, Pa,” she said, more softly. “Truly.”
His gaze strayed toward her, and back across the room. Most of the men had fallen asleep, obviously grateful for a real bed and exhausted by the wagon ride here. And Pearl had been so busy making sure everything was set up that she hadn’t even asked who the men were.
Their injuries, now—the man in the nearest bed had sustained gunshot wounds in three different areas of his body. The next one over had lost most of a leg. Another was gutshot and not expected to live. When Pearl had asked Travis why they’d bothered to bring him, he’d just shrugged and not replied. The fourth man’s head was wrapped about with a bloody bandage, and he hadn’t awoken even when they carried him in.
Pearl quailed at the thought of having to tend that one. Brothers she’d had, including the younger, whose swaddling she’d helped changed, but grown men, and strangers, were another thing entirely.
The Rebel Bride Page 2