by Kris Tualla
Reid said nothing and tried to calm his pounding heart.
The bandages floated away.
“The bruising is still rather severe,” Haralson stated as if there was a roomful of witnesses. Perhaps there was, Reid realized. “The swelling is notable, but I’ve seen worse.”
Reid clenched his jaw to keep from shouting his question.
“Go ahead and open your eyes, but slowly.”
Reid fluttered his eyes open, unsticking them from a crust of salve and dried tears. He squinted—the dim light in the room hurt. His eyes stung. He couldn’t keep them open.
“Can you see?” Haralson demanded.
“I see light,” Reid answered and tried to force his eyes to stay open. “I see shadows.”
“Can you see this?”
A blurred jagged shape wiggled in front of him. “A hand?” he guessed.
“Good. Close your eyes.” More rummaging in the satchel. “I’m going to apply the salve again and put the bandage back on. We’ll leave everything in place for three more days before I remove it.”
A cool swipe of some gelatinous substance soothed his stinging eyes.
“You’ll stay in the dark for a day after that. Gradually move into light over the next couple days.”
Gauze rested on his eyelids.
“You should procure a pair of smoked eyeglasses and wear them when you are out of doors for a week or two after that, until all of the discomfort is gone.”
Reid’s head was lifted. A strip of cloth was wound around his head, holding the gauze in place. As much as he hated being blinded, the bandage was physically comforting.
“I’ll be able to see normally again?” he asked when the wrapping was finished.
“I can’t promise you anything,” Haralson deflected. “But from what I’ve seen here today I don’t believe you’ve lost much of your vision.”
Relief flowed through Reid’s veins. “Thank you, doctor.”
“I’ll check your eyes yet again when I return to remove the stitches.”
The satchel snapped shut. Drapes were pulled over their rods. The parlor door opened.
*****
Kirsten jumped back from the door, embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping. She had her ear pressed to the portal practically from the moment Horace pushed it closed. She heard everything.
“Doctor Haralson!” she exclaimed. She gave him what she hoped was a disarming smile and offered him his hat. “How is our soldier faring?”
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.” The doctor took his hat from her hand and moved toward the door.
“Haralson!” her father’s voice boomed from the staircase as he descended. “Are you rushing off?”
The doctor bobbed a quick nod. “I’m afraid so, Sven. I’ve lots of patients waiting.”
“And our Captain?”
Haralson grabbed the doorknob. “Should be right as rain in a couple of weeks.”
Henrik glanced at his daughter. “That long, eh?”
Kirsten moved her smile to her father. “He has to wear the bandages over his eyes for three more days. Doctor Haralson will come back in a week to take the stitches out of his leg. In the meantime, he can walk with a cane as long as he keeps the leg straight.”
Haralson cleared his throat.
Knowing she was caught, Kirsten’s head swiveled to meet the doctor’s eyes. They twinkled with amusement.
“Don’t forget to purchase the smoked eyeglasses,” he quipped.
Kirsten’s face flushed. “Yes, Doctor.”
He clapped his tricorn hat on his head. “I’ll see you in three days.” He disappeared out the door.
Henrik stood in front of his daughter. “You do make a good nurse, I must confess.”
“Thank you, Pappa.” She went up on her toes to kiss his cheek.
He considered her with a somber gaze. “Guard your heart, Kirsten. He’ll be gone in a fortnight.”
She gaped at her father. “I don’t—I mean—why would you say that?”
Henrik pulled her into his embrace and rested his chin on her head. “You have a very strong will, daughter, and you have sent away every suitable prospect your mother and I have found for you. I don’t want you to set your sights on a man you cannot have.”
Her father’s voice vibrated from his chest to hers. Tears stung her eyes.
“Pappa, please don’t worry about me. I have no intention of falling for the captain,” she murmured. Or any man. Ever.
“I cannot help but worry over you,” he replied. “You are my daughter. My only child. I long to see you safe and happy.”
Safe was a Norwegian ship that had sailed far, far away never to return; but she couldn’t tell him that. Her parents believed they had done the best for her. She wouldn’t break their hearts with the truth.
Kirsten tilted her head back and looked at her father. “Let me live my life as I choose to. That would make me happiest of all.”
*****
Reid smiled when he heard Kirsten repeat all the explicit instructions from Doctor Haralson. He knew that if anyone else was in the room besides Horace, it wouldn’t be her. Or any woman, for that matter. The only explanation, then, was that she was listening outside the parlor door.
Just as he expected her to.
She was a pistol, this woman—for at twenty-six years of age she was far from being a girl. Reid liked that. After spending eight years in the nearly exclusive company of men, he had developed some fairly rough edges and he knew it. He had managed to drive off some prospects of his own when he forgot to be gentle in his manners.
For reasons he had not yet discerned, Kirsten wished to remain independent. Reid found that comforting. If he was to remain in this house and under her care for the next two weeks, he didn’t want to have to dance around an inconvenient romance in the process. Or worse, the assumption of a romance.
Kirsten’s declaration of disinterest had set them both free from social convention. He would continue to be blunt with her, and he expected the same treatment in return. After all, that is how their burgeoning friendship had begun, and he saw no reason to make a change now. Such a thing could only muddy the waters between them.
Waters.
Blue like a winter sky.
Reid sighed. He couldn’t wait to see her eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
September 8, 1781
“I want to walk this afternoon,” Reid announced.
Kirsten looked at him, surprised. “You’ll need a cane.”
“Or a strong stick,” he qualified. “Might there be one around here?”
“I’ll send George in search,” she promised. “Finish your luncheon.”
An antique cane was found in the attic amongst random items her parents brought when they moved from Norway. Black lacquer with a curved brass handle, it was a little too short for Reid.
“I’ll make do,” he insisted. “I need to get off this cot and into some fresh air before I lose my sanity.”
“Wait! I have an idea!” Kirsten yelped. She ran off in search of the tallest brass candlestick she could find on short notice, leaving Reid to fend for himself.
Returning to the parlor, she jammed the tip of the cane where a candle would go. It stuck. And it added half a foot to the length of the cane.
“How is that?” she asked when he pushed himself to stand on one leg.
Reid leaned on the cane. “That’s perfect. How did you do it?”
“Take my arm,” she said, ignoring his question. “I’ll lead you.”
Reid complied. He limped across the parlor carpet without comment. But when the brass foot of his cane hit the marble floor of the manor’s entry, the resounding metallic clang brought him up short.
“What am I leaning on?” he demanded.
Kirsten smothered a giggle. “A candlestick.”
Reid’s jaw fell, hung slack for a moment, and then snapped shut. He bounced a brief nod. “Lead on.”
Pleased that he appr
oved of her makeshift solution, Kirsten found herself beaming. It was a simple thing, really. The cane needed to be longer, the tip was about the size of a candle, the problem was solved—until a cane of the right length could be made or purchased.
Purchased, she decided. A man like Captain Hansen deserved the dignity of a proper accessory.
“We’ll go out the front door and down the steps,” she explained.
“I trust you to lead me,” he replied.
Another wash of pleasure followed his words.
Kirsten led Reid to the steps and steadied him as he worked his way down. He winced when he put weight on his injured leg, but he was careful not to bend it. Once they stood on the drive, under the protective portico, Reid stopped.
He leaned his head back and drew several deep breaths. “Lord, that smells good,” he moaned.
Kirsten wrinkled her nose. “I smell manure.”
“So do I—and it’s glorious!” he declared.
Kirsten laughed. “Perhaps your sanity is already in jeopardy.”
He wagged a finger in her direction. “You are the one that has me prancing about on a candlestick foot. Poor, blind cripple that I am!”
She laughed again. “I’ll send George today for an appropriate appendage. Do you want to go back indoors until then?”
“Helvete no!” he barked.
Kirsten rested his hand on her shoulder. “Then let us continue.”
She walked slowly, knowing he would tire easily after spending nearly a week in bed. Reid hobbled along beside her. Step, shuffle. Step, shuffle. The pair strolled in amicable silence, bathed in autumn sunshine with a soft breeze hinting of the chill to come in weeks ahead.
“What is war like?” she asked after a while.
Reid pressed his lips together. He stopped walking. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I suppose I want to know what your life has been like.”
Reid faced the ground. “Most of the time, it’s damned boring. Waiting and marching, marching and waiting. Between battles, we track our enemy and try to engage them when it’s to our advantage.”
“I never thought of it like that,” Kirsten admitted.
Reid leaned on the cane. “Food is never plentiful, unless we have time to hunt. Or fish. But those times are rare. Soldiers often go hungry.”
She recognized his need to rest so she changed the direction of her query. “Are you a good shot?”
One side of his mouth curled. “I am.”
“You like to hunt, then?”
“I love to hunt. When I was younger, I would go into the woods for a couple days and bring home enough game to feed my family for a month. We sold the pelts as well,” he said. “We don’t farm, other than my mother’s vegetable garden, some chickens, and a couple milk cows. My father has his own architecture firm and that keeps him very busy.”
Kirsten considered the land surrounding them. “We have several hundred acres here, and tenants who farm it for us.”
Reid nodded his understanding. “Like back home.”
“That is not my home!” she snapped. “I am an American.”
Reid put up a defensive palm. “I meant nothing by it, Kirsten. I’m sorry.”
Humiliation at her apparently unwarranted outburst heated her skin, chest to scalp. “No, I’m sorry, Reid. After insisting I be defined that way for three long years, I’m too quick to jump now that I’m back.”
“You have been back for two years, have you not?” he pressed.
Kirsten grabbed his hand and placed it firmly on her shoulder. “Let’s head toward the house. You shouldn’t overexert yourself on this first outing.”
Reid followed her again. This silence was not so amicable. She had been rude and she knew it. Kirsten bit her lips together and willed herself not to succumb to tears over such a small infraction.
“We’re dirty all the time.”
She frowned. “What?”
“Soldiers,” he murmured. “We seldom get to bathe. We wear our clothes until they practically fall off us, and then have to purchase new garments wherever we can find them.”
“Oh.” Kirsten knew he had forgiven her, but that only made her more likely to cry.
“Sometimes…”
She looked back at him and walked on in silence. Judging by the lines on the sides of his mouth whatever followed that introduction was not going to be easy to say.
“Well, many times, to be honest,” he took another run at it. “We’ll take clothes off those in our regiment who fall.”
Kirsten made herself keep walking, though her gut’s response was to stop and stare at him in horror. She never considered a soldier’s condition would be so desperate that they would steal clothing off corpses. Out of necessity.
“You—you must have had a hard time finding—clothes to fit you,” she managed.
He snorted. “Tall boots hide short trouser hems quite effectively. Besides, fashion falls far behind when compared with freezing to death in some obscure valley.”
Kirsten didn’t know what to say to that. He was right, of course. And the dead men didn’t need the clothes any longer. She found it gruesome, nonetheless.
After several minutes of sober silence, Kirsten asked the question she wanted to ask every soldier who came through their parlor hospital but had never worked up the courage. She only did so now because this soldier couldn’t see her.
“What is it like to kill a man?”
Reid sucked a breath through his teeth. “That depends on how you do it…”
She did stop walking this time.
Reid smacked into her back. “Ouch! Skitt!”
Kirsten whirled to face him. Reid had dropped his cane and held the sides of his right thigh while wobbling on his left leg. His mouth was twisted in a grimace that silently screamed his pain.
“I’m so sorry!” Kirsten cried. She squatted and retrieved the cane. “Oh, Reid! I’m so very sorry!”
She rested one hand on his shoulder, partly to steady him and partly so he would know where she was. She leaned the handle of the cane against his wrist.
“I’m sorry, Reid,” she said again.
He lifted his chin. “My fault. I didn’t see you stop.”
A sob burst from Kirsten’s chest before she could contain it. For reasons she couldn’t name she began to cry. A shoulder-shaking, blubbering, bawling mess of a cry. She hadn’t cried this hard since that night in Akershus.
“Kirsten?” Reid ventured. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she gulped. “I c-can’t s-stop.”
“I’ll be fine,” he assured her.
Kirsten pulled her hand away from him to wipe her dripping cheeks.
Reid swung his arm in an arc in front of him and hit her shoulder. He grabbed it and pulled her close, pressing her to his chest. He wrapped her in long, strong arms, and held her tight. For a moment she felt secure. Safe.
And then she remembered her singular situation and pushed him away.
“We should go back.” She turned around and waited for him to take hold of her shoulder.
“Kirsten.”
“No, Reid,” she said firmly. “We need to go back.”
His hand brushed up her back until it reached her shoulder. Hot and heavy, it felt like an anchor pushing her down. She stepped forward, her back stiff with resolution. She didn’t say another word to Reid, other than to warn him of obstacles in his path, until they were at the house.
“Have I offended you in some way, Miss Sven?” he asked once they reached the parlor.
“No,” she whispered. “Of course not.”
“Then, what may I ask—”
She put a finger against his lips. “Please don’t worry yourself. I’ll check on you later.”
Kirsten turned toward the stairs and looked up.
Her mother stared down at her, unsmiling.
*****
What the hell.
Reid fumbled his way to his c
ot. He set the cane within easy reach and stretched out on the mattress. His thigh ached, though he didn’t believe the collision with Kirsten’s arse had done any new damage. But his head was pounding again.
His earlier intuition that something happened to her in Norway solidified in his mind. He also made up his mind to ignore that intuition.
In two days the bandages would come off his eyes. In five days, the stitches would be out of his leg. Soon after that, he would be on his way.
A crush of depression sat solidly on his chest.
Kirsten’s questions reminded him of what he was returning to. Battles fought with limited ammunition, side by side with fourteen-year-old farm boys and forty-year-old shopkeepers, most of whom would end up dead in an unnamed forest or a trampled wheat field. Dirty clothes, thin jackets and boots that leaked. And another winter was visible over the horizon of the calendar.
All this effort to take down a uniformed enemy; one provisioned, trained and skilled in warfare. It was a miracle the Continental Army had lasted these five long and brutal years since the declaration, considering the pounding they received in the year before Congress pulled its collective head out of its ass and signed the damned thing.
Thank you, John Adams. You made Massachusetts proud.
Patriotism aside, the war with England was an effort he could not give up on now. The United States of America had been born, and Reidar Hansen was determined not to let the infant die. If he did, then the previous eight years of his life—and all the sacrifices he both suffered and chose—would be wasted. The crush of that depression would kill him.
The end was near. It had to be. He only needed to survive the coming months.
Reid tried to relax. His walk was tiring, though not for the physical exertion alone. He would be a fool to become too connected to Kirsten. There was no point in following a path which he had neither the time nor intent to fully explore.
He pulled a deep breath. A nap before supper struck him as a good idea.
*****
“Have you told him?” Marit asked.