To Wager Her Heart

by Tamera Alexander

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tanner,” Aletta whispered, assisting Andrew back into his chair with a scolding glance. “Andrew, we must ask permission first.” She placed a restraining hand on her son’s leg before turning back. “Candy is a rarity these days, sir.”

  “It’s not a bother, Mrs. Prescott. Tell me, have you had success with securing employment?”

  “No, sir, not yet. But I won’t give up,” she added quickly, her smile feeling brittle. “I’m hoping to find something soon.”

  “I share that same hope, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “Allow me to come directly to the point, Mrs. Prescott.”

  He hesitated, and her heart fell.

  “The board of officers met,” Mr. Tanner continued, “and . . . unfortunately, given your present situation and lack of employment, they do not believe that granting you more time to bring the mortgage current would be prudent. Nor practical. I’m so sorry.”

  The sincerity in his voice worked to undermine her already tenuous emotions.

  “Therefore, the board voted to proceed with the foreclosure. But I was able to persuade them to allow you and your son more time before you must vacate the home.”

  Vacate their home. She took a deep breath, the ache of missing Warren in that moment nearly unbearable. “Thank you, Mr. Tanner. That’s something, at least.”

  “They granted you until the first of December to find somewhere else to live.”

  “Two weeks?” The scant relief she’d felt evaporated, and a rush of anger that had been building in recent days erupted. “That’s all? We have to leave the home we’ve lived in—and have faithfully made payments on for almost four years—in only two weeks? And my late husband so recently—” She caught herself. “—having sacrificed everything for his country, and this is the decision you make? This is the step the board would take if it involved one of their wives? Their children? You would push them from their home and into the streets?”

  Andrew cocked his little head. “We’re not gonna live at home anymore, Mama?”

  Confusion riddled his expression, and Aletta wished again that she hadn’t had to bring him along. But leaving him with MaryNell wasn’t an option at present. “Everything will be fine, sweetheart,” she said softly, wishing she believed it. She turned back and sighed. “My apologies to you, Mr. Tanner. Focusing my anger toward you is out of line. I know you did all you could. It’s simply . . . two weeks is not a very long time. Especially for a woman . . . in my circumstance.”

  Mr. Tanner briefly bowed his head. “I understand, Mrs. Prescott. And may I offer, again, my sincere condolences on your loss. I, too, am sorry. I held such hope that this would turn out differently.”

  She heard the finality in his voice and started to rise—when Andrew lunged again for the candy dish. She swiftly grabbed his arm. But not before he snatched a handful of peppermints. He yanked away from her, hitting the candy dish and sending it crashing to the floor. Shards of glass and peppermint scattered everywhere.

  Heat poured through her. “Oh, Mr. Tanner! I’m so sorry! Allow me to help clean this up.” She rose, holding on to Andrew while already calculating how to kneel, something that was becoming more of a challenge.

  “Don’t worry yourself over it, Mrs. Prescott. Please. My secretary will see to it.”

  He crossed to the door and opened it, a clear message sent in the act. Trying to regain her composure, Aletta followed, Andrew in hand. She couldn’t bring herself to look up at Mr. Tanner as they exited.

  “Thank you for your time, sir.”

  They were nearly to the front door of the bank when Andrew tugged hard and attempted to turn back. But Aletta was having none of it, her grip viselike.

  “Andrew, I told you—”

  “There’s Mrs. Goodall’s friend.” Andrew pointed.

  Sure enough, Aletta turned and spotted the man she’d seen at MaryNell’s house last week. He was seated behind a large desk in an office near the center of the bank. Her gaze went to the shingle hanging above the door, and the truth expelled the breath from her lungs.

  Herbert Cornwall, President, Franklin Bank.

  The man happened to look up, and their eyes met. His gaze deepened in recognition, and Aletta felt the heat of indignation rush through her. She still hoped her suspicions were mistaken. However thin that hope was. So much about this world was wrong, and unjust, and didn’t seem at all to be moving in the right direction. What kind of world would her son—her children—grow up in? She didn’t know. She only wished they could have had their father alongside them as they did.

  She turned and strode from the bank, Andrew in tow.

  “You want one?” he said after a minute. “I’ll share.”

  She looked down to see him extending his hand, two peppermint candies nestled in his sticky palm.

  “Mr. Tanner sneaked ’em to me as we left,” he said quickly. “I promise.”

  Reading honesty in his eyes, she took one of the candies and popped it into her mouth, the cool rush of sweetness nearly overwhelming her taste buds.

  “It’s good. Huh, Mama?”

  She nodded, seeing Warren in his expression, and cherishing both of them.

  “News from the War Department!” a newspaper boy called out from the corner.

  Unwilling to part with another precious coin given her circumstances, she still wanted to read that list. Some would call her foolish, she realized. But she’d heard of a woman who had received notification of her husband’s death only to read his name sometime later in the War Department’s updates—where he was listed as having been wounded in battle and was still very much alive.

  She spotted three women huddled close around a newspaper and waited, understanding their heartache, as, gradually, relief smoothed a measure of the worry from each of their expressions. One of the women happened to look up and meet her gaze. A wordless exchange passed between them, and she held out the paper to Aletta.

  “Thank you,” Aletta whispered. “I’ll look quickly.”

  “You can keep it,” the young woman responded, unmistakable relief softening her voice.

  With Andrew beside her, Aletta turned the pages, then scanned the list of names under the heading “Tennessee—Killed, Wounded and Missing,” all while telling herself she wasn’t nurturing foolish hope.

  She was simply still hoping.

  Chapter 3

  Aletta kept an eye on Andrew as she read through to the end of the list. No Warren Wesley Prescott. Under any category. No Richard Goodall either, although she did recognize two of the other names on the deceased list. Poor Virginia Cates and Margaret Kirby. Did the women even know the fates of their dear husbands yet?

  She whispered a prayer for them, and a chilling wind swept it upward.

  On the way home, she recalled a similar afternoon months earlier when she and Andrew had passed a contingent of Federal soldiers. As she’d looked into the eyes of the blue-clad enemy, she’d known she was looking into the eyes of some woman’s husband, father, brother, or son. And as she’d contemplated many times before, she firmly believed that—given the chance—she could sit across the table from those women and together they could somehow chart a course to peace.

  Peace that utterly eluded Generals Grant and Lee.

  Why were men so drawn to war? It probably revealed far too much about her, but she couldn’t think of anyone or any political issue for which she would willingly sacrifice the lives of her children. Her own life? Perhaps. But those of her children? She couldn’t fathom.

  Later that night, after a dinner of leftover beans and corn bread, she tucked Andrew into bed on the straw mattress next to hers, then donned her shawl to fetch more wood for the fire. The night air was crisp, but at least the wind had subsided.

  She stared up into the night sky pricked with stars, the quarter moon shining especially bright, and she wondered how much longer the war would continue. She smoothed a hand over her belly, not too surprised when the child within gave a tiny kick. “Patience, my
love,” she whispered. “Not quite yet.”

  A moment passed and she looked down, realizing she was doing it again—twirling the wedding band that was no longer there. She stared in the moonlight at the empty place on the ring finger of her left hand, knowing she’d made the right choice. She and Andrew had to eat, after all. It had been almost a year since she’d sold it to the jeweler in town, but still she felt naked without it.

  Discovering how little wood was left in the bin, she retrieved the ax, situated a log atop the old oak stump, and brought the ax down with practiced force—something she wouldn’t be able to do much longer. The log split clean down the middle. Since her parents had never had a son, she’d been forced to learn unusual skills for a woman. Skills that had proven helpful over the past two years since Warren had left. Not to say she hadn’t missed Warren. She had, terribly. But she hadn’t been quite so lost in certain ways as some of her friends had been.

  She chopped wood until the bin was stocked for several more days, then, breath coming heavy, carried an armful into the house. The crackle of dry wood succumbing to flame filled the bedroom, and the warmth felt good on her skin.

  She sighed and retrieved the newspaper, then settled into the chair by the fire to read. When she reached the editorial section, she felt herself tensing . . .

  While the gentler sex is highly esteemed, it’s clear they’re best suited for hearth and home and utterly foolish to suggest that women should be involved in any way in the war effort. Their place is in rearing children and homemaking. And to insinuate that some females have managed to infiltrate the ranks of the army and are fighting alongside men even now is ludicrous. Not only would such women faint beneath the hardship of a soldier’s life, they would flee in utter terror at the earliest sign of battle.

  Aletta read on, not realizing until she’d read to the end of the letter how hard she was gritting her teeth. She consciously tried to relax her jaw as she scanned the letter written to the editor a second time, struck by her reaction to it while fully realizing the dichotomy of her thoughts.

  Not that she herself ever wished to be in battle, not after the sights Warren had described with such agonizing detail. But that a man—the letter was simply signed “A soldier who loves his country”—would think so little of a woman’s capacity as to limit her options to only “hearth and home.” Was he not aware that women filled most of the factory jobs now? By necessity, yes. Because the men were off fighting. But still, females were doing the work and doing it quite well, from her perspective. She herself had worked briefly in a munitions factory, until the Federals took command of the town and shut it down. She huffed.

  Such arrogance. Short-sightedness.

  She turned the page, eager to move her thoughts to another subject, when a leaflet slipped from between the pages of newsprint and fluttered to the floor. She picked it up and read the ornately scripted banner across the top.

  Christmas at Carnton

  December 17–24

  She scanned the printed handbill and softly read aloud, “A Christmas auction sponsored by the Women’s Relief Society in support of our Confederate soldiers. Experienced cooks needed.”

  She lifted her gaze from the page, knowing precisely where she was going first thing in the morning.

  “Are you questioning my order, Captain Winston?”

  “No, sir, Colonel. I simply—” Jake read warning in the man’s eyes and knew better than to try to bluff. Not after they’d been to the gates of Hades and back together. Yet he had to try to convince the senior officer. “Permission to speak freely, Colonel.”

  Seated behind his field desk, Stratton leaned back in his chair, cigar clamped between his teeth. “Lack of such has rarely stopped you before, Captain. But . . .” He gestured. “Permission granted. Speak your mind.”

  Jake hesitated as a bitter morning wind billowed the sides of the canvas tent, bringing with it a cold that sank clear through skin and straight to bone. He could scarcely feel his toes as it was. But at least he still had boots, what was left of them anyway. Which was more than most of the other soldiers could claim. He chose his words carefully.

  “With all due respect, Colonel, I believe I can still be an asset here.”

  The colonel’s smile came slowly. “You can believe anything you want, Captain. That doesn’t change my order.” He gave a throaty laugh. “I can’t tell you how many soldiers would jump at a chance to get away from the front lines for a bit.” He shook his head and all humor drained from his expression. “It’s tough . . . what’s happened to you, Captain, I know. You’re one of the finest soldiers I’ve ever known. And the best sharpshooter this side of Mississippi.”

  Jake stiffened, hearing a silent were—past tense—in the colonel’s statement.

  “There’s no shame in what happened to you, Captain Winston. I’ve spoken to your commanding officer who was there at Chickamauga. There’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent what happened.”

  Jake shook his head, seeing it all play out again in his mind’s eye, feeling the bullet rip through his flesh seconds before his head struck the boulder. “I must have missed something, sir. Movement on the ridge, perhaps. Or maybe if I’d taken position a little farther to the east—”

  “You didn’t miss anything. One of their sharpshooters finally got the jump on you that morning, that’s all.”

  “And killed three of our officers.”

  “This is war, Captain Winston. Men die. And they’ll keep on dying until the South puts an end to this conflict. Which I believe will be very soon. Meanwhile, you’ve got to find a way to move past Chickamauga.”

  “But how can I leave these men, sir? I can still serve here. I’m sure of it!”

  “Part of what’s at play here, Captain Winston, is that you’ve learned you’re not invincible, no matter that your record up to now would reflect otherwise. You’ve all but single-handedly taken out the majority of the Federal’s best sharpshooters. Yet never once have you been seen, much less shot. Until now. Do you have any idea how many lives you’ve saved over the past two years?”

  Jake held the colonel’s stare but said nothing.

  Stratton leaned forward in his chair, the joints creaking from the weight. “What’s the doc’s latest report?”

  “He says my shoulder’s healing fine, sir. Bullet went clean through. But he says I need to give it more time. That my long-range vision might come back. Or . . . it might not.”

  Stratton stared. “What does your gut tell you, soldier?”

  Jake straightened. “That I’m ready for battle, sir. Not like before, of course. But I can still shoot well enough to kill a Yankee.”

  “Is that so?” Colonel Stratton rose, his already imposing figure seeming more so in the confines of the tent. He laid aside his cigar and grabbed the rifle atop his trunk. “Follow me.”

  Outside, in the chill of early morning, dawn cloaked the encampment in a dusky purple gray as the sun edged its way up over the hills. Fog hung in ragged patches like tufts of cotton torn and scattered on the breeze. Jake followed, already knowing where the colonel was leading.

  When they reached the target range, Stratton handed him the Whitworth and pointed. “Lowest limb of that poplar. Sixty feet out.”

  Mindful of the wound healing in his left shoulder, Jake brought the rifle close to his right, the movement as familiar to him as breathing. He lowered his head, feather-closed his left eye, and peered through the scope. Then blinked. Again and again. Despite the bone-chilling temperature, sweat slicked his skin. He squinted, concentrating. But no matter what he did, the world through the scope remained a distant blur.

  “Take aim and shoot, Captain,” Stratton commanded.

  Jake’s gut churned. He gritted his teeth. Focus, focus! Exasperated, he finally shook his head. “It’s no good, sir,” he whispered, his breath puffing white.

  “You said you’re ready for battle, soldier! That’s a Yankee coming straight for you, sixty feet out. Except he’s covering
ground, and he’s got a load of lead aimed straight at your heart. If he’s slow and has some girth to him, that might give you a chance. But if he’s fast and a fair shot, you’re already dead. So take aim and fire, Captain.”

  “Sir, I said it’s no good. I-I can’t—”

  “Take aim and fire!”

  Jake squeezed the trigger and absorbed the familiar recoil of the rifle even as the sound of the bullet missing its mark caused something deep inside him to give way. An ache lodged in his chest and his eyes burned with emotion.

  “Congratulations, Captain.” Stratton clapped him on his good shoulder. “You’re a dead man.”

  Stratton turned and strode back to his tent. After a moment, Jake did likewise, rifle in hand. He followed the colonel inside, returned the firearm to the trunk, and stood at attention before Stratton’s desk, waiting to be dismissed. Stratton took his seat and said nothing. Just shuffled through papers, head down.

  Moments passed.

  Finally, the Colonel sighed. “Captain, you’re obviously not ready to return to battle yet.”

  “But, Colonel, I—”

  He raised a hand. “I spoke with the doctor, too, and he believes this assignment will be good for you. You need to rest your eyes, he says. Use those compresses and whatever other medicine he’s given you. Doc says it’ll speed the healing. If there’s healing to be had,” he added in a quieter voice. “And I concur with him that some time away from your regiment and the camp would do you good.”

  Jake looked at him. “Some time, sir? But we’re scheduled to move out day after tomorrow, and I—”

  “All the wounded are being transferred to Thompson’s Station this afternoon. The convoy leaves at noon. Except for you.” Stratton leveled his gaze. “General Bragg wrote asking for a special favor to an honorary colonel friend of his. That’s where you come in.”