Josh drew a deep breath and feigned being freshly wakened, which wasn’t difficult, considering the state of affairs. Opening his eyes to Miss MacFarlane’s cool gaze, he couldn’t tell if she was convinced by his act or not.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up with increased dexterity, finishing the maneuver before either she or Bledsoe could assist, and was gratified at the surprise in both their faces. Setting his jaw a second time, he proffered the wounded arm for their examination.
Miss MacFarlane unwrapped the limb with amazing gentleness—and proficiency. How many times had she cause to do this the past several days?
And then—there it was. His arm, or what was left of it. Horribly raw and bloated and disfigured, and—aching. That awful, bone-deep ache, like he could almost feel the saw again.
Miss MacFarlane peered into his face. “Do you feel faint? You could lie down if you’d rather, and not—not look at it.”
He sucked in a ragged breath. “I’ll sit.” And watch as well, but he’d not say that.
If she, a girl untrained—to the best of his knowledge—could bear tending it, he could bear being upright and aware of it all.
Not once did she flinch or shrink from the awfulness of it. Josh found himself watching the flicker of expressions across her face, waiting for disgust or even pity, but it never came. Her brows knit for a moment in what looked like concern, and the softly curving lips parted in apparent concentration before small, white teeth caught her bottom lip. The green eyes, sparkling in the room’s dusk, met his for a heartbeat or two, and then her lashes dipped as a flush spread lightly across her cheeks.
For an instant, he nearly forgot the task she’d set herself to.
Pearl could not decide whether it was the presence of Travis, leaning in from one side to look at Mr. Wheeler’s wound, or the intensity of the Yankee himself as she tended the arm, that drew the blush to her cheeks.
One thing was certain, those dark eyes riveted to hers—unfair how a man’s lashes could be so long—nearly drove all thought of her task from her mind. Her fingers fumbled while applying the goldenseal powder, and with a wince, Mr. Wheeler’s gaze dropped. Her face burned all the more, but she reached for the fresh length of cloth that Travis held out, and began the process of binding the wound again.
The damage had been done, however, and her thoughts remained not a little muddled.
And what on earth just happened between them?
She finished as quickly as she could, checked on supper, then had Travis help her with the other two men before they looked in on Pa once more. Sleeping, still. She caught her breath in a moment of thankfulness.
How was she to manage with him recovering from a bad spell yet again? And if he were to fall out of bed a second time?
Travis helped her lay supper on the table and carry bowls to the two men in the sitting room, now able to feed themselves but not to leave their beds. He helped Mr. Wheeler to the table and called Clem in. A curious tension wound around the four of them as they surrounded the table.
Clem thumped down into a chair, and Pearl could feel the eyes of both Travis, still standing and waiting for her to be seated, and Mr. Wheeler, already sitting, as she pulled out her chair and arranged her skirts. Quiet settled around them for a moment, and Travis offered the blessing. At his amen, Pearl looked up enough to make sure the three men were eating or preparing to before taking up her own spoon.
She tasted the stew cautiously. Not bad, for bean and squirrel. Travis ate without comment, Clem spooned his with a sullen air, and Mr. Wheeler tucked himself around his bowl as before but ate more slowly this time, shooting occasional glances at the others.
“What news of the army, Travis?” Clem said.
Her cousin shot him a frown. “I can’t talk about it here, Clem. You should know that.”
Clem muttered something in return, bending his head over his bowl so that the dripping ends of his hair nearly touched the food.
The meal dragged on in silence. Clem and Travis went back for a second bowl, with Travis refilling Mr. Wheeler’s, but at last Travis pushed back his chair. “I must be getting back. Pearl, a word with you, if you don’t mind?”
She followed him out into the dusk to the hitching post, where he set to the task of bridling his mount. Away over the ridge to the west, clouds gathered, with the occasional flash of lightning and rumble of thunder. “Rain, finally. It’s been so dry.”
Travis buckled the bridle under the horse’s jaw but made no move to untie the animal. After a moment, he swung toward her. “Pearl. Now that we’re alone, hear me out, please.”
Tightness gripped her throat. No … oh Lord, please, no …
She gave him a single, tiny nod.
His pale eyes shone in the twilight. “You know how I feel. How I’ve always felt. And even though you may not share the sentiment now—”
“Ever, Travis,” she choked.
“You may not share it now, but—you need someone, Pearl. Uncle George is failing. Your brothers are gone, and Clem, I see he’s itching for some action as well.” Travis eased toward her a half step. “Let me be that one, Pearl. Marry me. Right now while the army is here at Chattanooga.”
Her heart drummed with painful beats. The inside of her mouth had gone suddenly parched.
“Please, Pearl.”
“I—I can’t, Travis.” Her head had begun to shake, just a little, then more emphatically. “I—you know I love you, we grew up together, and I know you as well as one of my brothers, but—I can’t.”
He stared at her for a long time then tucked his chin, one boot toe scuffing the earth. “You don’t have to answer right away. Just—please think on it.” To her silence, he added softly, “Promise me you’ll consider it.”
A huff escaped her. “I—will at least do that much. But I can’t promise a yes.”
In fact, she was more than certain her reply would always be a no. Not least of all because she didn’t know if she could bear being hitched to a man who thought nothing of owning other human beings. No matter what Portius’s loyalty bespoke of him.
But Travis looked so mournful that it nearly drew tears from her—again, after everything else this day. She swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry. I wish it could be a yes.”
He glanced down again. “It could be a yes. But—I can’t make you say it.”
With that, he tugged the horse’s lead rope loose, tossed the reins in place, and mounted.
“Travis.”
He pulled the horse around to face her.
“Be well.” There was suddenly nothing else she could say.
A hard nod as he heeled the horse about. “I’ll send Portius back.” And then he was gone, galloping down the road.
She stood, still choking back the tears. A rumble of thunder shook the ground, the storm closer now. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.” How many times had she watched the clouds rolling in over the ridge, but each time the storm would pass.
This time, she wasn’t so sure.
Finished with his second bowl, Josh was in no hurry to move, and the gangly MacFarlane boy seemed to be lingering as well. When his sister stepped inside at last, followed by the crackle of lightning, he turned to look at her. “What did Travis want?” the boy asked.
“Never you mind,” she said, but with less heat than Josh suspected the words deserved. She glided up to the table and regarded her half-eaten bowl of stew with distraction.
“Do you want the rest of that?” Clem asked.
“No.” She slid the bowl toward him and drifted toward the kitchen.
Even then, she simply stood there, one hand on her hip, the other rubbing her forehead.
What the blazes had that Rebel said to discomfit her so?
Carefully, so as not to jostle anything and humiliate himself again, Josh scooted his chair back and rose, then carried his bowl and spoon to the kitchen. Miss MacFarlane angled him a watery, abashed glance. “I could help
with the washing,” he said.
“You’ll do no such thing,” she snapped, then sighed. “Today, at least.”
He offered a half smile then made his way back to his room.
The Norwegian tossed and moaned a little in his sleep. Josh lingered for a moment, but it didn’t appear that there was much he could do.
Besides pray.
Did he even know how to do that anymore?
He had a feeling he best learn, if not.
By the time Pearl finished with washing up, making sure Pa hadn’t fallen out of bed again, and meeting any reasonable requests from the two men in the sitting room, full dark had fallen, and the house shook from the lightning, thunder, and lashing of the rain. Clem had helped, reluctantly, then disappeared to the barn despite the storm. Oh, how she wished she could simply go fall into her own bed.
But—Mr. Thorsson.
Who was likely to die anyway, and—suddenly she could face none of it.
She scurried up the stairs and did exactly as she’d been longing to do, fairly diving into the coverlet and pulling the corner up over her head. As the rain beat on the roof, she let her own downpour come.
The look on Travis’s face when she’d refused him. His insistence that he simply wanted what was best for her. How could she deny that she was in desperate straits here, or would be soon?
But to marry Travis … no. That was not a solution her heart could accept. At least—not yet. Could she ever? Was it fair to him to take her, the troublesome young girl cousin, who would likely always be a troublesome wife? And she, who once upon a time had let Travis kiss her but just thought the entire production strange …
You know I love him, Lord, but—as a brother. Not like that.
Yet she couldn’t seem to stop the tears from flowing.
Oh, gracious Lord.
Finally, as the rain began to ease, so did her weeping.
Sometime later, she awoke with a start.
Had there been a sound? She was so used to awakening this way of late, it was beginning to feel normal. Regardless, there was a niggling urgency she could not rid herself of, so with a sigh, she rose, straightened her clothing, and trudged downstairs.
Pa still slept. So soundly, she wondered whether it a natural sleep, but a moaning and muttering from her bedroom drew her on. Predictably, it was Mr. Thorsson. She dutifully fetched her basin and cloth, made sure she had a cup and spoon for fresh water, and settled herself at his bedside.
She’d barely begun the task of bathing Mr. Thorsson’s face and neck when Mr. Wheeler spoke behind her. “He’s been like that for the past hour or two.”
The pitch of his voice, low and quiet, minded her of the thunder, distant now, and not unpleasant to the ear. She glanced back and found him watching her.
“I’m hoping this helps him. It did seem to soothe you.”
Mr. Thorsson had already quieted a little but still muttered incoherently. She wrung out the rag and started in again. “Come on now,” she murmured. “You need to fight this too. You’ve so much to live for, back home.”
Feeling abashed for the tender words, she cast another glance over her shoulder. Those dark eyes, surrounded by long lashes and scattering of freckles visible even in the candlelight, were still fastened on her, and she tucked her chin to hide whatever blush he might be able to see. Why she found herself responding so was a mystery.
“What about yourself,” she went on. “Who did you leave behind?”
Her cheeks fairly burned now, but the darkness of night lent an illusion of intimacy. His slow intake of breath and noisy exhale told her the question was no easier for him to receive than for her to give.
“Oh, my ma and pa. An older sister and her brood. Two brothers and their families.” He was quiet a moment. “One of those hasn’t been heard from since Gettysburg.”
Her hands slowed. The too-familiar ache rose in her chest. Of course the Federals would have suffered losses as well.
But again, they were the ones who had invaded the Confederacy.
“Why,” she muttered. “Why do you feel it necessary to bring this fight to us?”
Another long exhale. “Why do you feel it necessary to hold on to Secession?”
She bent, forehead almost to the Norwegian man’s shoulder. “Questions for which there are no good answers,” she said at last, then straightened. “I am sorry for your loss. Three of my own brothers have died in three different battles.”
“I’m most regretful of your loss as well,” he said, his voice very low and rich with feeling.
As if he meant it.
She fetched a cup of water and went through the process of spooning it into Mr. Thorsson’s mouth. After the first taste, he gulped it greedily.
Well, that was a good sign.
“Did you force-feed me water, as well?” Mr. Wheeler asked.
“Yes,” she answered, not turning.
Another silence, then, “Why not simply let us die?”
The proper answer was on the tip of her tongue, but she found herself murmuring, “I considered it.”
Now why had she said that, and to him of all folk?
To her surprise, he chuckled—then after a moment, broke into a genuine, if weak, laugh. “You, Miss MacFarlane, possess a singular honesty.”
A rueful smile tugged at her mouth.
“Which battles, then, were the ones where your brothers fell?”
“Fishing Creek, Shiloh, and—the one just past.”
His silence stretched on until she couldn’t resist glancing at him.
“Let me guess, you were at all of them.”
Those dark eyes had gone hooded. “Fishing Creek, no. But Shiloh—yes.”
She sighed and turned in her chair to face him more fully, clutching the rag in her hands. She was so weary, she couldn’t even find it in herself to be angry. Even the grief was but a hollowed shell, at the moment, despite how the all-too-familiar ache sharpened.
“I wish I could adequately convey how very sorry I am,” he murmured. The quiet hung between them for another minute or so, and then he said, “What were their names?”
She cleared her throat. “Jefferson and Jeremiah were twins. Mama lost three before those two finally came along, strong enough to survive infancy. Then there was Gideon. Jeremiah, he left a wife and children—” She swallowed. Lydia deserved the title, even if the law had not recognized her brother’s commitment to her as legitimate. “Jefferson and Gideon were too wild to settle, though.”
“And your younger brother is called Clem?”
“Clement. Actually Harry Clement, but he insists on Clem.”
A muted sparkle returned to Mr. Wheeler’s eyes. “Truly a name to live up to.”
Mr. Thorsson seemed to be sleeping soundly now, so Pearl set the rag back in the basin and made herself more comfortable. “It was a family name, on the MacFarlane side. Pa was never very clear on how.” She smiled again, a little. “Word has it that my great-grandparents were Loyalists in the War for Independence, but rather than leaving with the British, they up and moved to north Georgia. So no relation to the McFarlands, for whom the gap over yonder is named.”
Mr. Wheeler smiled in response. “My pa’s family were from Virginia and were patriots.”
“Of course,” she said, and he grinned.
“Then my pa moved to southern Ohio, by way of the river, after the Shawnee cleared out.”
“My mama’s family was from Kentucky, by way of the Cumberland Gap. But we have family all across Tennessee and Kentucky and as far west as Independence, Missouri.”
Mr. Wheeler’s eyes crinkled. “Just think, if you’d grown up in Kentucky, you’d be a Yankee now.”
Pearl snorted, and to his laughter she said, “Oh, there are good Confederates up that way as well.”
“I do know that,” he said, growing thoughtful. “We even have a few Confederate sympathizers up our way. We call them Copperheads.”
“But you aren’t one of them.”
&nbs
p; His gaze flickered to hers and held. Still thoughtful. Not condemning. Simply—assessing.
“Why—”
A thump and hoarse cry came from the other room—through the wall, from Pa’s room.
“Oh no.” She scrambled out of her chair, snatching up the candle.
Sure enough, Pa had fallen again and lay plaintively calling for help.
Not again, not again, not again beat the tattoo of her heart as she knelt beside him. “Are you hurt anywhere, Pa?”
“Pearl, I need to go to town.”
Distress lashed at her. “It’s the middle of the night. You should be sleeping.”
“No, must—get to town. Willy Jones has promised me a good price on the fall colt.”
“No, Pa. He—” She flailed for a reply. “He bought the colt last week. You’re just dreaming, is all.”
Pa’s rheumy eyes fastened on hers, his mouth slack behind his gray beard. “Are you sure? I know it was today.”
“No, Pa,” she said more softly.
Mr. Wheeler was suddenly beside her. “How can I help?” he murmured.
She glanced at him. One strong arm was surely better than none, in this case—but had he energy enough to do this, after the day he’d had? “We should get him back in bed, but—this is the second time today he’s fallen.”
“Why don’t we put his pallet on the floor?”
“I’ll not sleep on the floor,” Pa said indignantly.
Pearl sighed. His cross moods came seldom, but when they did, he could be a sore trial to everyone around him. “Pa, you need—I need—you to not fall out of bed. You’ve fallen twice now.”
“Rubbish,” he snapped.
Pearl sighed and sat back, scrubbing a hand across her face.
Mr. Wheeler edged forward. “Sir, if you would allow us to assist you back into your bed, I’d be honored to sit and visit with you.”
He slid a glance toward Pearl, and she gave him a tiny nod in return.
“Oh, I suppose that would suit well enough,” Pa grumbled. “I am tired of this hard floor, after all.”
Between the two of them—Mr. Wheeler hooked his uninjured arm beneath Pa’s on one side, and Pearl did the same on the other—they managed to lift Pa and get him situated again. But when they went to assist him in lying down, he planted his feet and announced, “I’m not sleepy.”
The Rebel Bride Page 9