No Greater Glory

by Cindy Nord

  Emaline swallowed and pressed the damp cloth against her heated cheeks. The coolness did little for the burning ache that bloomed inside her, radiating across her breasts, descending in an undeniable rush to nestle in the most intimate place between her legs. She buried her hand in his hair, her head lowering to the pillow beside him.

  Her eyes slipped closed.

  “Please, God,” she begged, pleading into the cradling softness of the goose-down pillow. “Please don’t let him die.” From across the room, the embers of a dying fire popped as charred logs settled into the grate.

  Three days later, Emaline stretched on tiptoes and placed the just-washed bed sheet across the clothesline. Sun beat down upon her and she swiped away the sweat trickling down her cheek. The back door slammed shut and seconds later Euley appeared, carrying more soiled clothing to the waiting cauldron over the fire.

  Emaline turned toward her. “Don’t you think we should at least try to give him another sip of water?”

  “He ain’t takin’ it. I done tried.” Euley tossed the clothes into the bubbling water.

  “But his fever broke last night! We should see some kind of response by now.” Emaline headed for the back veranda, throwing the words over her shoulder. “I’m going upstairs to check on him again.”

  Several minutes later, she leaned over the bed, pushing aside the wicker basket that contained a pile of clean cotton strips. Carefully, Emaline peeled away the blood-spotted bandages across Reece’s forehead and plopped them into the bucket beside the chamber pot. The black stitches pulled tight in a snaking track of angry flesh but the faded purple edges of the wounds showed indications of healing.

  Her hope rose, buoyed by the sign.

  She placed the new dressing, then settled the basket of bandages on the side table. A guttural groan filled the space.

  Startled, Emaline reared back from his chest.

  “Reece?” she queried, not at all sure she’d actually heard him moan. She stared down at him, waiting for another sign, anything at all, to indicate he’d responded to her presence.

  Then, he moaned again. The lament drawn out and full of pain.

  That was more than enough for Emaline.

  In a flash, she bounded from the bed and dashed to the window. She nearly ripped the fabric as she brushed aside the curtains.

  “Euley, come quick,” she bellowed into the clearing below. Standing by a row of turnips in the garden near the summer kitchen, the servant raised her head and shaded her eyes with her hand. “He’s waking up! Euley, can you hear me?”

  The old woman waved back. “Yes, yes, I hear you and so do all da folks in Richmond too. Hold on, I’m comin’.” She trudged toward the veranda and Emaline impatiently watched as she disappeared under the eaves of the house.

  Reece tried to swallow, but a fiery sensation burnt through him and stopped any further attempt. Undulating pain crashed over him and he moaned again, struggling to eradicate the horrific sensation. The effort proved futile. He felt more than heard the groan tearing upward from deep inside his throat. Claws dug into muscles and tendons. He struggled to repulse the fiery demons that bored their way into his chest. Another keening wail fell from his parched lips. Seconds later, he felt something cool slip beneath his neck. His head rose and soothing tones, angelic and pure, cascaded over him, gliding in between the heaving waves of hell.

  He must be dead, and this angel of mercy now begged for his soul.

  Cooing words wedged aside his fear.

  Something pressed against his lips.

  Reece swallowed and a cloying sweetness trickled down his throat, bathing the fires of Lucifer in a wondrous rush of relief—until he coughed and the fleeting respite dissolved. Unbearable pressure returned to crush his chest. He fell backward upon the softness beneath his head. He tried not to scream, but the wail only ripped from his throat in another guttural moan. He raised his arms in an attempt to remove the wicked weight, but the gentle pressure stopped his efforts.

  His angel spoke again, her dulcet words beckoning.

  “No, you mustn’t move.” Her churring demand floated over Reece and he resigned himself to her counsel. “The morphine will ease your suffering. You must give it time.” He struggled to acknowledge her command, but his awareness of her dulled under the onerous hook that cleaved his ribs.

  The compelling force returned to his lips. Once more, he swallowed.

  Comfort oozed his raw throat and the honeyed words purled again, pulling him past his torment, transporting him farther and farther away from the suffering.

  “Don’t fight so hard. Let go…”

  He surrendered, curling up next to his angel. The comforting haven of her affirmations, her sweet presence, at last brought him escape. His mouth opened. He tried to speak, to tell her how much he needed her, but the words remained locked behind a rasping whimper. Then, the ebony curtain floated back over him and returned him to the convivial abyss.

  Reece opened his eyes. Shadows danced before him. A flickering golden glow, blurry images, all twisted and leaped together across the hazy field of vision. He slowly blinked. Once. Twice. Attempting to identify the cloudy reflections.

  His eyes drifted closed.

  Coolness radiated through his hands. His fingers flattened, then peaked. He accepted the presence of something wonderful…the plane beneath his fingertips, soft and smooth. Then the sensation spread, penetrating into the skin beneath his arms, the underside of his legs, the aching muscles that stretched across his back.

  A bed.

  His eyes opened again. And this time the images materialized and entwined across a sea of pale green leaves. He blinked and forced his vision to stabilize. A wash of firelight flickered across wallpaper and highlighted the images of hunting dogs; pheasants drooped in death between the animals’ clenched jaws. The distinct crackling of logs in a fireplace underscored the aroma of burning pine.

  He tried to roll his head toward the light but searing pain pierced him again and he squeezed his eyes tight to contain it.

  The explosion.

  He remembered the moment now. Why wasn’t he lying on a battlefield somewhere? The soft mattress beneath him, the warmth in the room, the wallpaper all said he wasn’t in an army hospital tent. No hospital on earth smelled like this room—fresh and clean, an elusive fragrance of lavender.

  The wondrous scent of my angel.

  He’d memorized her soothing voice, pleading and praying, begging him to return to the living, begging him to return to her.

  Then he heard a sound.

  A snip?

  His foggy mind scrambled to identify the source. He scanned the hazy-lit area above him. His gaze trailed down the mahogany posters of a huge bed. The whole thing swathed him in sheer curtains.

  Again he heard snipping and peered sideways.

  The bent form of a woman sat beside the bed, her hand dipping down and then pulling away from an object cradled in her lap.

  Sewing?

  Reece struggled to adjust his eyes. Firelight caressed her delicate features, the flickering glow framing her beautiful profile. Murkiness lingered inside his brain and testified that he’d been sedated, but he didn’t think he’d also lost his mind.

  He closed his eyes and slowly reopened them. The precious apparition shimmered back into focus. This vision seemed so real, so different from the thousands of others he’d had of her in the past. The myriad of other dreams had tormented his soul every night since he’d left her at that cramped hotel room in Falmouth nearly a year and a half ago, all swirled in a blur of regret.

  Reece stared, mesmerized by the way her hand rose and fell with each stitch. Several strands of hair cascaded over her far shoulder from a loose chignon resting at the nape of her neck. He dug his fingers into the bed sheet. An aching need to touch her raged through him. His eyes burned with a need to blink, but he refused to do so, afraid she would disappear just as she had in all those other dreams.

  So he opened his mouth and uttered her
precious name. “Emmy?”

  The garbled name grated outward from the covers and Emaline stopped sewing. She swiveled toward the bed. “Reece?” A flash of elation tinted her voice. “Y-yes? I’m here, Reece.” For fifteen long days, he’d incoherently mumbled—words about the war, the horrible carnage he’d witnessed, everything ran together in a disjointed hodge-podge of mangled torment.

  All pain-filled.

  All drug-induced.

  But not now. This time, her name left his lips in a clear whisper. Her gaze met his and her throat tightened. She surged to her feet, her sewing and the scissors tumbling to the floor. Leaning, she placed her ear next to his lips.

  “Emmy?” His shallow query was barely perceptible, yet a giddy wave of disbelief fluttered over her.

  She cupped his face. “Yes. Yes, it’s me, Reece.”

  “Are you…real?”

  “Yes. Yes. I’m real,” she whispered, tears rushing into her eyes. She blinked faster. “I’m very real.” After a long pause, his eyes drifted closed again. “Reece?” She reached for his bare shoulder and squeezed his warm skin. Her breath held while seconds ticked past.

  Then, he reopened his eyes and peered up into hers.

  “How…long?” he groaned.

  She brushed his hair from his face. “Over two weeks. You’ve been badly wounded.” He nodded, and the obvious pain of moving his head brought forth another groan. “My brother found you and brought you here.”

  “How?”

  “On a scouting mission. He stumbled across your group of men. You were the only one left alive.” She’d removed his stitches several days ago and there’d been no seepage to his wounds. Soon, he’d be up and moving to avoid atrophy to his strong muscles. “I’m going to remove the dressing on your chest now.”

  His eyes opened wider. “You’re my angel,” he whispered.

  Emaline smiled at him, smoothing her hand over his head. “I’m glad I’m your angel.”

  The whole time she administered to his wounds, he watched her. Even when she poured medicine down his throat, he continued to stare up at her, even when the pain flowed over him and he moaned aloud; when the tears slipped from the corners of his dark eyes, he still refused to close them.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Euley had finished shaving Reece when Emaline eased open the bedroom door, carrying a tray laden with breakfast.

  “He’s in a foul mood dis mornin’, Miz Emaline,” the woman mumbled, moving past her and on into the hallway. Emaline anchored a smile. She wasn’t sure she wanted another set-to with Mr. Cantankerous.

  “Good morning, Reece.” Her cheery voice matched the lively yellow-and-green plaid of her day dress.

  “Morning,” he mumbled, struggling to sit up in the bed.

  She placed the tray across his lap. “I’ve brought you a nice bowl of fish chowder.”

  “Again?” He stared down at the opaque liquid in the bowl. Chunks of cooked vegetables bobbed in the broth like buoys. His gaze tracked back to hers. “We’ve had this same talk every morning for the past three weeks. Can’t anyone rustle me up a slab of meat and some eggs?”

  She fluttered the cloth napkin into the air and then settled it across his chest. Benjamin’s cotton nightshirt engulfed him in soft white billows. “And I’ve told you the same thing every morning too, remember? Euley says you’re not ready for anything more substantial quite yet.” Dour-faced, Reece had been especially long-suffering these past few days. Emaline sympathized with him, though. To coop up this man for so long proved daunting, especially since he didn’t crave the depending-upon-others role he now faced. Emaline refused to let him see her empathy and instead changed the subject. “Tacker informed me this morning your stallion has greatly improved. The wound on the flank is nearly healed.”

  “Lucky horse.”

  She stifled a sigh. “You’re getting stronger every day, Reece. This takes time.”

  “Yes, but I’ve got things I need to do.”

  “What is so pressing for you?”

  “The war, to name one.” His eyes locked with hers and silence filled the room before he gruffly added, “I don’t even know what’s going on or where the hell my men are now.”

  Don’t scream.

  “Ah yes, the war again,” she said, surprised her voice remained calm. “It appears to me you’ve already paid your dues.” She gestured to the wounds. Even though they were mending at an incredible rate, Reece was still miles from being saddle-ready. Emaline pursed her lips. Each day, the argument of war and the important role it played in his life, swelled higher.

  He shifted higher against the headboard. “I’ve got an obligation to nine hundred men.”

  “Yes, well let me relieve some of your concerns. Tacker heard from a passerby this morning that the Yankees are somewhere down around Petersburg.”

  She debated the advisability of giving him the news, foolishly thinking that by keeping him in the dark about the war’s progression, he might forget his urgency to leave. As she saw the light of interest brighten in his eyes, along with a smile that popped up across his smooth-shaven face, Emaline realized the sheer impossibility of that dream.

  Her heart sank further as his grin widened. “Petersburg? Good. That’s only twenty miles south of Richmond. If Grant can get the railroads blocked, that’ll cut off Lee’s supplies and then we’ll definitely have the bastards cornered. That’s excellent news.”

  “For you perhaps, but certainly not for the southern soldiers.”

  He sighed. “It’s only a matter of time. You know this. The sooner we get this damn thing over with, the sooner our country can heal.”

  “I’m tired of war,” she whispered, turning away from his inscrutable gaze to straighten the few medical supplies still left on the side table. “This has all been an exhausting waste of precious lives and resources.”

  He nodded, picking up his spoon. “You’ll get no argument from me on that one.”

  Her chin rose. “It appears you’re ready to eat on your own today?”

  He brought the broth-filled spoon to his lips and then offered a broad smile before sipping off the liquid with a tad more fervor than she expected. “Delicious,” he said, plunging the spoon back into the bowl for a refill.

  Emaline laughed, crossing to the fireplace. She stooped to tend to the ashes from the night before. Sweeping them up with the hearth broom, she placed them in the bucket, and laid a new fire for the evening light.

  Appetite assuaged, Reece pushed aside the empty tray and leaned back against the mound of pillows. His arms nestled behind his head. “Emmy?” he said, his eyes drifting closed.

  She stood, dusted off her hands, and then turned back toward him. “Yes?”

  “Thank you for saving my life.”

  “You saved yourself.”

  “Not true, Angel, ’twas you that brought me back.”

  Emaline traversed the room and removed the breakfast tray, placing it on the table next to the supplies. Angel, his new pet name for her. The connotation behind the word disturbed her. Did he just appreciate her simply for her nursing skills? Like the admiration that so many wounded men gave to their caregivers or sanitation commission workers. Or was she truly important to him?

  “Why do you call me that?” she asked.

  His eyes opened, his smile returning. He lowered his arms to the quilt. “Because you are.”

  “I’m no angel, Reece. Believe me.” She tossed his napkin on top of the empty bowl. “Sometimes I’m wickedly mean.” She turned back. He appeared so much better today. His color had improved. Good health was returning, and though he would bear multiple scars from his injury, he should suffer no other ill effects.

  And when he left this time, she would miss him dreadfully.

  Their relationship had shifted into a strong friendship and she felt comfortable with the easy camaraderie of the past week. Aside from his frustrations about the war, which seemed to escalate at a steady pace, they had spent many an enjoyable aft
ernoon talking about his ranch out west, and his sister, Callie.

  Emaline cherished every moment spent with him.

  She lowered to the edge of the bed and scooted back onto the mattress. “But sometimes, I’m nice too,” she said, a chuckle in her voice.

  “Yes, sometimes, I think you’re very nice.” His teasing words tangled up inside her heart. A long silence stretched between them and forced her gaze back to his. “And then sometimes I think you’re a little wicked.” He winked at her and sent a flush burning hot across her cheeks.

  She remembered exactly how wicked she’d been while wrapped in his arms.

  His eyes narrowed and the tone of his voice shifted. “You know you’re an integral part of me now, don’t you?” She glanced away. His words wrought havoc with her heart. Gone was the comfortable banter of moments before. His penetrating words continued. “Lying here, day after day, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I haven’t always been honest with you.”

  Emaline closed her eyes. How much did she dare believe this time? The rich timbre of his voice rippled through her frustrations.

  “I should never have said those unkind words to you after I discovered your brother that night. You don’t know how often I wished I’d done things differently.” He reached for her hand, his fingers closing around hers. The warmth and weight of them forced her eyes closed. With a will of their own, her fingers opened and then interlocked with his in a strong clasp. “I’d come back to talk to you, but then I discovered Brennen and everything went to hell after that. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

  Chirping birds beyond the window promised another beautiful morning and the bustling sounds of Euley beyond the open bedroom door declared work that needed doing.

  But they all faded into the background. As long as Emaline lived, she would remember the pain of that night.

  Her emotions threatened to overwhelm her.

  She knew it was only a matter of time before Reece climbed back upon his horse.

  Caring for this man had consumed every waking hour this past month. As much as she longed to believe him, she knew she would never be able to endure another heartbreak of such magnitude.