“No.” She grabbed him around the neck. “I was thinking of something a little more substantial. Stew and hominy, maybe,” Samantha said, then laughed again at Will’s expression. He loved stew. But that wasn’t the only reason she decided on cooking it. Captain Morgan needed nourishment, and beef broth seemed as good as anything.
“How’s he doing?” Will motioned toward the barn as they passed.
“Maybe a little better. He’s sleeping now. I’m going to brew some more tea. Hopefully he’ll be better in a day or two.” And then I don’t know what we’ll do, Samantha finished silently.
But he was still feverish two days later. And Samantha was exhausted from taking care of him. But every time she thought to pass the chore over to Will, something inside her balked. She couldn’t put her finger on the reason, and truthfully didn’t want to think too much about it. She finally decided she’d put so much darn work into saving him she couldn’t let go now.
But he wasn’t saved. If anything, he seemed worse. His rantings were quieter, but she blamed that on the weakness that seemed to settle over him like a shroud. Samantha quickly pushed aside that thought. She didn’t want to think of him dying.
She was afraid that might happen if she didn’t do something. But what?
Slowly, careful not to hurt him more than necessary, Samantha uncovered his wound. It looked worse each time she changed the dressing. Today it was all puffy and red. And the smell! Samantha forced herself not to shrink away. It wasn’t healing right. It didn’t matter that she had no experience with such things, she knew.
But again came the question, what should she do? A sudden memory of Jacob Morgan’s earlier ravings swept over her. In his mind he’d been cutting off limbs and she’d decided he was a doctor. Samantha wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. She could use a doctor now. But she couldn’t risk leaving her patient to go into town. And even if she did manage to drag old Doc Shelton out here, he’d probably be too far gone in his daily consumption of liquor even to tell her what to do.
That’s what she needed, someone to tell her what to do. Samantha’s eyes widened, and she sucked in her breath as the idea formed. It probably wouldn’t work, but leaning toward the Rebel’s ear, she decided it was worth a try.
“Jacob,” she whispered, her nose brushing the soft wavy hair along the side of his head. “Jacob, I need your help.”
“Lydia?” He drew the word out lovingly, and Samantha swallowed, wondering why she felt this odd sense of jealousy. She wanted him to think she was Lydia. It made things much easier.
“Yes, Jacob.” She started to tell him she was Lydia, but didn’t. The expression on his face made it clear he already knew. Taking a deep breath, Samantha continued. “Help me, Jacob. Help me make you better.” She paused. “I want you to be well again.”
“Lydia.”
His voice was weak and Samantha sighed in frustration. “Jacob!” Samantha slapped her hand against the straw-covered floor. “For heaven’s sake, you’re going to die.”
“Good.” The word was barely more than a whisper but Samantha heard it, and her breath left her with a whoosh. Good? He’d said good. He wanted to die?
“Jacob. Jacob.” Samantha tried to push aside the panic in her voice. “I don’t want you to die. Please live... for me.”
“Want to die.”
“No!” Samantha ignored the tears streaming down her face. “No! I don’t want you to,” she repeated. “Now tell me what to do. You were shot.” Samantha pushed ahead before he could say any more about dying. “You have a fever and your wound looks awful. And smells. It smells bad, Jacob, and I’m afraid.”
“Get the bullet out.”
Samantha sat back on her heels. She heard him clearly, but it wasn’t only the volume of his voice. He sounded different. She didn’t know how, maybe more authoritative. Then she thought about what he’d said, and she glanced at the wound. “I don’t know how.”
“Cut it out, damnit.”
As if that order drained his remaining strength, the Rebel settled back into the unconscious state he’d drifted in and out of for days. Samantha just stared at him for a moment then she gathered up her skirts and ran from the barn.
Charity lifted her head sleepily when Samantha burst through the cabin door. But by the time she’d gathered up the few things she needed, the dog was snoring softly, her nose cradled on her furry paws.
Samantha didn’t bother to light the extra candles till she was again inside the stall. She could easily find her way from the cabin to the barn in the dark. But she couldn’t find a musketball without plenty of light... if she could find it at all.
Staring down at the knife she’d taken from the hook beside the stove, Samantha felt a shiver of dread flow through her. What if she killed him? She’d never done anything like this before. Oh, she’d nursed the sick. Her mother had lived a few pain-riddled weeks after coming down with the fever and Samantha had taken care of her. But that was nothing like cutting into someone’s flesh.
Samantha sank to her knees, watching the play of light and shadows on Jacob Morgan’s skin. Tentatively she touched the area around his wound. He was hard and firm until her fingers wandered too close to the opening. The contact made Samantha wince, but the Rebel didn’t move a muscle. She supposed he would be thankful for his unconscious state, as she replaced her hand with the tip of the blade.
Her probing didn’t seem to affect him, but Samantha had a difficult time keeping her hand steady. She forced herself to ignore the fresh blood and continued to carefully explore the wound with the blade tip. And then she felt something hard.
Samantha used her fingers to remove the ball. It looked so small and innocuous cradled in her palm. She dropped it in the tin pan and went about cleaning his wound. Then she pulled out the needle and thread she’d attached to her bodice. It occurred to her to wake Jacob up if she could and ask about sewing him up. She wasn’t sure if it would help or hurt him. But waking him would allow him to feel the pain and she didn’t want that.
Quickly and efficiently she stitched, pretending her needle flew through one of Peggy Keane’s vulgar gowns. After she tied off the thread, Samantha cleaned herself and the knife, covered her patient, and leaned back against the stall divider.
When she woke, it was still dark outside, the little oasis of light coming from the lantern and flickering candles. Samantha thought Jacob Morgan might look a little better. But it might be her imagination tempered with hope. He was still hot to the touch, but he slept more peacefully.
Samantha thought back over his nightmares—tormented dreams—as she watched the slow rise and fall of his chest. In his ramblings men screamed in pain and died. And were sometimes saved. By Jacob Morgan? Samantha was fairly certain the answer to that was yes.
She sighed. As difficult as it was for her to care for one man, what must it have been like to minister to scores... during wartime.
Samantha looked down at the Rebel. “What kind of man are you, Jacob Morgan?” she asked, then shook her head. He was in no condition to answer for now.
She was so tired. Last night, after Will had climbed into his loft, she’d brought her pillow out to the barn, planning to sit on it awhile and sponge Captain Morgan down. But she hadn’t used it, and now the grass-filled ticking lay beneath the captain’s head.
Samantha sighed again, her chin on the bend of her raised knees. His skin seemed a little cooler. And she was so weary. She should go back to the house and sleep. But she couldn’t make her tired limbs respond. Her lids felt heavy, and thinking only to give herself a brief rest, Samantha slid down into the straw.
~ ~ ~
Jake came awake by slow, painful degrees. His eyes slitted open, then slammed shut. Something—the sun?—shone brightly overhead. Where was he? And what happened to him?
Smells surrounded him, ripe and musty, reminding him of the stable behind his house in Richmond. But he couldn’t be there. The stable was gone, like the house on Franklin Street
. Burned. He’d seen the charred remains for himself when he’d returned to Richmond after the war.
So where was he? And why did his chest hurt like hell? More to the point, why did he hurt like hell all over?
His right side was nestled against something warm and soft, and though it had been a long time since he’d experienced the feeling, he knew it was a woman. He could hear her breathing, and smell her, a faint clean scent vying with the stronger odor of straw and animals.
It wasn’t Lydia. He was sure of that. Though it vaguely seemed as if he’d been with her recently, he knew Lydia was dead.
Jake swallowed, then slowly opened his eyes, squinting toward the source of light. A lantern of pierced tin, not the sun, illuminated what appeared to be a horse stall. It hung from a low, roughly hewn rafter. He probably was in a barn or stable of some kind, he thought. Twisting his head to the side, Jake decided to see if the assumption he’d made lying there was right.
The pain that shot out from his chest made him suck in his breath, but didn’t stop him from shifting to see what was cuddled against him.
Blond hair, thick and mussed, lay on his shoulder, and beneath it a face that seemed oddly familiar. Yet he didn’t remember knowing this woman. She was young, with fair skin tinted slightly by the sun, a short straight nose, and full lips that curved slightly in her sleep. Her lashes lay thick against the few freckles that spattered her nose and cheeks.
And her eyes were blue. Jake paused in his study of the woman. How in the hell did he know what color her eyes were?
But Jake could swear if she opened them, he’d see they were blue, soft and gentle, and turned up slightly at the corners. He didn’t know her, he was certain of that, but there she was, strong in his memory.
She stirred, the hand resting on his chest coming up to brush at her nose, and Jake watched as her lashes lifted. Then he was staring into those deep blue eyes he knew she’d have. She looked at him sleepily, then smiled, her eyelids drifting shut again only to pop open.
“Oh my,” Samantha said, jerking to a sitting position. “You’re awake.”
Jake tried to lever himself up, his face grimacing in pain, and Samantha eased him back onto the blanket. He’d spoken to her before, of course, but he’d always seemed in some feverish haze. This time she didn’t think he was, and not just because his skin felt cool and damp. He looked lucid and aware, and slightly amused.
How had she managed to lie down beside him, and why was she so flustered?
Samantha decided to get herself under control. “Would you care for something to drink, Jacob Morgan?” As she reached for the ladle, Samantha brushed her hand against the Rebel’s sidearm in her apron pocket.
He drank greedily, stopping when she suggested he slow up, then lay back onto Samantha’s pillow with a sigh.
“Where am I?”
“My farm.” Samantha turned her back on him. “My name is Samantha Lowery.” She glanced over her shoulder. He appeared perplexed.
“How did you know my name?”
Samantha dropped the ladle into the water pail, a lie forming readily on her lips. “You told me,” she answered before squatting down beside him. If he didn’t remember the time he caught her snooping in his saddlebags, she certainly wasn’t going to remind him.
He seemed to accept her explanation readily enough, and Samantha quickly straightened his blanket, making certain to stay out of his reach. Now that he was awake, really awake, she was back to being afraid of him. She glanced toward the rope she’d used to tie him that first night. One end was still attached to the side of the stall, and Samantha wondered if she could wrap the other end around his wrists without him causing too much trouble. She caught his eye as he looked around the barn, and she decided she couldn’t.
“How long have I been here?”
“Four days, almost five.”
“And you nursed me all this time?”
“Yes. Actually my brother and I have... my big brother.” Samantha’s lie came easier this time. Captain Morgan was studying her, a wary expression on his face. And his wariness evoked the same emotion in her.
He looked at her steadily, his green eyes never wavering, and Samantha tried to match him in kind. But her hand crept into her pocket when he asked, “Is he the one who shot me, this big brother of yours?”
“No.” That much was the truth. Samantha’s hand tightened around the Rebel’s gun, waiting for the next question. But he didn’t ask if she had done the deed, or even who had, and Samantha’s hand relaxed.
“How bad is it?” He angled his chin down toward his chest.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “You’ve had a bad fever.”
“Deliriums?” His eyes snapped back to hers and she glimpsed again that look of sadness before he masked it.
“Some.” Samantha stood. “You rambled on a bit, but never about anything I could understand!” This lying to him was second nature to her now. She was doing it without the slightest compunction—her father would roll over in his grave—and for no good reason. It even occurred to her that she’d like to ask him about being a doctor.
But it was better if she didn’t know anything more about him. Samantha was honest enough—with herself anyway—to realize she’d formed an attachment to the stranger. It was one-sided, and obviously brought on by the intimate care she’d given him. But it couldn’t go any further.
And she didn’t want to talk about Lydia with him.
Samantha wiped her hands down the sides of her skirt. “Well, you should be getting back to sleep. You need your rest.” It was too dangerous to try and tie him now but she’d sneak back while he slept and bind him. He acted decent enough now, but he was weak, almost at her mercy. Samantha couldn’t forget the first time she saw him—riding toward their cabin, sent by Landis Moore. He was bent on hurting Will and her then, and as soon as he was strong enough, he’d no doubt try again. What was she going to do with him?
“Thank you.”
His softly spoken words stopped Samantha as she reached for the lantern. She didn’t expect anything close to manners from one of Moore’s men. “For what,” she asked, yanking the lantern off the hook. Oscillating light splayed across him when she looked down. He really was a handsome man. She’d noticed it before when she compared her patient to the man in the daguerreotype, thinking that if he were cleaned up and shaved, he would be. But now she realized he just was, scruffy beard, scraggly hair, and all. Maybe those captivating green eyes made the difference.
He watched her now, a slight frown creasing his brow, and she remembered what he’d said, and that she hadn’t responded. Clearing her throat, Samantha looked away. “It was nothing.” She wished she weren’t so aware of him as a man.
“Still, I’m grateful.”
Samantha glanced back to see him smiling at her. His face was mostly in shadows but not so much that she couldn’t make out his features. She’d once thought a smile would transform his face and it did. Hurrying toward the door she left him in darkness.
Charity lifted head from paws, looked around, yawned, and rolled to her side as Samantha entered the cabin. She pulled the twisted string through the latch—not much protection from invaders—and glanced toward the loft.
The morning would be soon enough to tell Will about his new job. He would take care of their visitor from now on. Of course she’d see the bushwhacker good and tied first, but then Will could take care of his needs.
And she could get back to working the farm. A couple days of picking corn would purge this obsession she had with Captain Morgan. Then when he left, she wouldn’t have to worry about it again.
But when she crawled under the quilt and fell asleep, she dreamed of the Rebel, waking up with her heart pounding and a strange warmth in her stomach. Clutching the quilt to her chest, Samantha looked out the one window in her room. The palest hint of dawn bleached the night sky with streaks of gray.
After thrusting her unstockinged feet into shoes, Samantha grabbed u
p Captain Morgan’s revolver and headed for the stable. Charity trotted along into the yard, finally veering off toward the stream. The barn was dark, and Samantha waited for her eyes to adjust before moving closer to the captain.
He was asleep. One end of the rope was attached to a board separating the stalls. She laid the pistol on the ground well out of reach of the Rebel and carefully pulled the other end of the rope to his side. Quickly she tied it around his wrists, jumping out of the way and grabbing the gun when he jerked awake.
“What the hell are you doing?” She could make out his struggles in the dim light. Samantha watched as he seemed to realize his predicament. He quieted, straining to see her. “What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy?”
“No.” Samantha remembered she wore only her nightdress and backed farther into the shadows. “At least I’m not crazy enough to let you loose now that you’re better.” Charity started barking, that wild yelp she had when excited, and Samantha figured she’d flushed a quail.
“What’s gotten into you, lady? And what the hell are you doing with my gun?” Jake gave one more tug on the rope, then flopped down on his back, exhausted.
“You needn’t act coy with me. I know why you came here, and—”
“Why I came here! I’m here because some idiot shot me. Now untie this damn rope.”
Samantha ignored his tirade as Charity ran yelping into the barn. The dog jumped on the captain, eliciting a grunt of pain, and bounced in front of Samantha still barking shrilly. “What is it, Charity?” Samantha felt a prickle of fear. The dog didn’t act like this over a bird.
Then she heard the horses, and ran to the barn door.
“What is it, damnit?” Jake strained to sit up. “Who’s out there?”
The young woman turned toward him, and in the faint light from the open door, he could see the anger and hate marring her pretty face. “It’s your friend Landis Moore.”
Chapter Three
Why did she tell him that?
Samantha bolted through the door, chiding herself for her stupidity. Now all Captain Morgan had to do was call out and Landis Moore would know he was here. Wounded. And tied up. Oh, God!
Christine Dorsey Page 4