An Outlaw in Wonderland

by Lori Austin

  “I didn’t hear anything about a battle there.”

  “Not a battle.” He let out a quick breath. “He’s with Mosby. Or at least he was.”

  “He’s a guerilla?”

  “Partisan,” Moze snapped.

  “They were disbanded.” The partisans were considered rogues, rebels even in a rebel army, and Lee had hated them.

  “Mosby’s Rangers were allowed to continue, as they possessed some form of military discipline.”

  “How long has Luke been with them?”

  “From the beginning.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?

  “Luke didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Luke? Or you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No.” She would have worried; she had worried. “Thank you for letting me know.”

  “I didn’t come for that.”

  “Then why?”

  His hands clenched, released. “You shouldn’t be kissing him.”

  “You’re here to instruct me about whom I should kiss?”

  He rubbed the bump in his nose. “Why didn’t you hit him?”

  “None of your business. Now, why are you here? Besides the desire to stick your crooked nose where it doesn’t belong?”

  “Someone at Chimborazo has been telling the Yankees everything he sees, hears, and reads.”

  Understanding dawned. “You can’t—He isn’t—Ethan’s a doctor. A very good one.”

  “That doesn’t mean he isn’t a spy as well.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “One man came through this hospital who knew that Mosby was headed to Rectortown.”

  “Only one? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Believe it. He was sent to call the Rangers. He delivered the message, but he never returned to the rendezvous. I traced him here. Directly to Dr. Walsh’s table.”

  “That means nothing.”

  “The only person with the knowledge of the Rangers’ movements comes to Chimborazo; the last man he sees is Ethan Walsh. Then the Yankees arrive.”

  “You spoke with this messenger? He admitted telling Dr. Walsh the information? Who else was in the room?”

  “When he’s not unconscious, he’s delirious. Even if he survives, he’ll be lucky if he remembers his name, let alone what he said and to whom he talked.”

  Annabeth threw up her hands. “Which means you have no proof.”

  “I’m not done. There’s a Yankee sniper killing officers.”

  “Isn’t that what Yankee snipers do?”

  “He arrives ahead of everyone, shoots before the armies even engage. Every single division that’s lost their leaders reported sending wounded here. Wounded who were well aware in which direction they were marching. Next thing we know, their officers are shot in the head.” Annabeth flinched as if she’d heard the report. “This man is the best marksman we’ve ever seen. We have to stop him.”

  “How do you plan to do that?”

  “I’ll need some help.” His imploring gaze told her exactly whom he needed help from.

  “Not me,” she said.

  “Luke may be dead because of intelligence that came from this hospital. Don’t you want to know if Dr. Walsh is responsible before you kiss him again?”

  “He isn’t.”

  “You’re so sure?” Moze asked, and she nodded. “Then prove it.”

  • • •

  After a nearly sleepless night, Annabeth rolled out of bed at dawn and went to work. She stepped into the surgery ward and paused at the sight of Ethan Walsh.

  He glanced up, saw her, and glanced back down. Her face heated, and she ducked her head. Would they forever be uncomfortable around each other now? He was no doubt mortified that he’d kissed his nurse and given the poor, plain girl ideas. And Annabeth? She couldn’t stop thinking of what Moze had said last night.

  Prove it.

  “Beth,” Ethan began, and she winced.

  Only Yankees shorten names.

  Would Moze ever shut up?

  “I’ll apologize fer me forwardness, Miss Phelan.”

  His voice had gone cool. He’d seen her reaction and believed she was offended because he’d overstepped. She wanted to assure him that he hadn’t, but it was probably for the best if they returned to formalities.

  “What would you like me to do, sir?”

  “Back to ‘sir’ and ‘miss,’” he murmured, then gave a brisk nod. “Fresh dressing here—charcoal and yeast.” He pointed. “Cool cloth there.” He indicated another man. “Watch this one closely. The wound has swelled and gone red.”

  “Erysipelas?”

  He studied her. “Ye never cease to impress, Miss Phelan. Aye. If he progresses to chills, yet he sweats, and his pulse is far too fast, find me.” That condition, known as pyemia, followed the swelling and redness of erysipelas and was nearly always fatal. She could tell Dr. Walsh was disturbed by it. Very few of his patients contracted the disease.

  “If that happens, sir, there isn’t anything to be done but hold his hand.”

  He paused at the door. “As he’s my patient, I’d like to be the one holdin’ it.” He left without looking back.

  Annabeth did her best to keep the fellow at death’s door from stepping through, but when the young man’s eyes rolled back and he began to jerk with violent paroxysms, she waited at his side until he quieted; then she went to fetch Ethan. He wasn’t anywhere in the building.

  Seeing him that morning had unsettled her. Hearing him call her by the nickname she at turns loved and loathed had brought Moze’s disturbing accusation to the forefront of her mind. She didn’t believe Ethan was a spy any more in the light of day than she had in the dark of night. But still . . .

  If you’re so damn sure it isn’t him, it won’t hurt to prove it.

  Had Moze known that planting the seed of doubt would make everything Ethan said or did suspect? Probably. Moze was a spy, after all.

  She couldn’t believe she hadn’t suspected him of it before. That she hadn’t made her feel gullible. If a man she’d known all her life had fooled her, couldn’t one she’d known only a little while do the same?

  Annabeth stopped a steward. “Where’s Dr. Walsh?”

  The white-haired fellow spread his one remaining hand. “If he ain’t here . . .” She shook her head. “Try his quarters.” Her confused expression brought forth a huff. “On this side of Georgia Hospital.”

  Chimborazo was so large, it had been divided into five sections, each with its own chief surgeon. In an attempt to impose order over the disorder, soldiers were assigned a section based on their state of origin. The first section, where Annabeth and Ethan worked, was known as Virginia Hospital. The other four were Georgia, North Carolina, Alabama, and South Carolina. Annabeth had no idea what they did with patients from Tennessee or Mississippi.

  The steward sped away as glass broke in the infirmary. From the shouts, Annabeth deduced her patient was again jerking and spasming uncontrollably. She had to search out the good doctor wherever he might be before the end came and no further handholding was required. That Ethan felt such devotion to his patients gave her a tight, warm feeling in the center of her chest. None of the other doctors were half as dedicated.

  Just outside the physicians’ ward, which appeared exactly the same as the surgery ward—single story, long, and wide—she hesitated. Should she knock? Then it opened and one of the doctors stepped out. He blinked to find her hovering. “Miss?”

  “One of Dr. Walsh’s patients—”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Inside,” he said before he hurried on.

  The air within was still and stifling; the windows did little to help since there wasn’t any breeze. Cots stood in a double row from front to back. All lay unoccupied save one.

  “Sir?” she called. He didn’t move. “Dr. Walsh?” He muttered and turned over.

  Asleep. She hated to wake him, but she had to.

  Annabeth approached. As she leaned
over, hand outstretched, he said, “I’ll see you soon.”

  With no accent at all.

  CHAPTER 4

  Dr. Walsh!” Someone shook his shoulder.

  “Mmm,” he murmured, and burrowed deeper into the feather tick.

  Except the lovely, soft bed he’d been dreaming of no longer felt so soft. In truth, it made a rickety squawk beneath him as a hand shook him again.

  The scent of lavender and mint enveloped him, and he snatched the hand before it could escape. He opened his eyes, smiling into hers.

  “Doctor.” An odd expression darkened Annabeth’s gaze and put a crease between her brows. Unease trickled down his spine, and he sat up, narrowly missing her chin with his head.

  She stepped back, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Your patient is worse.”

  He stood, realized he’d taken off his boots, and sat again. “What happened?”

  “Paroxysms.”

  “Hell.” He stomped his heel into the right boot. When he glanced up, she was gone.

  Moments later he entered the operating room as the man breathed his last. Neck wounds usually resulted in death on the field. Very few ever reached Chimborazo. The only injury more deadly was one to the head.

  Still, his patient might have survived if he’d avoided pyemia, what Ethan referred to in his own mind as poisoning of the blood. As far as he knew, there was no cure once the condition took hold. Ethan believed his insistence on cleanliness was the reason so few of his patients died of it, but some still did. Each one tore at him, and though there was nothing he could do, he didn’t like for them to die alone. He should have stayed here, but he’d been so damn tired.

  He motioned for a steward. The quicker the dead were removed, the better. Not just for morale but for hygiene.

  Not wishing to watch the man being carted away—the sight always made him feel a failure—Ethan turned and saw Annabeth. She laid her hand atop a pile of clothing, straightened a set of boots, hung her head. From her pensiveness, if not the blood on the material, he deduced the garments belonged to the deceased.

  She glanced his way, then scurried off. He never should have kissed her. He’d ruined everything.

  At a loss—no new casualties, and all his other patients had been tended to already—Ethan crossed to where she had stood. As was his habit, he slipped his fingers into the pockets of the dead soldier’s shirt. Empty. Coat. Nothing. Trousers. The same. He nearly left before he remembered the boots. Shoving his hand inside, he found a wad of paper in one toe.

  Perhaps the footwear had belonged to a soldier with bigger feet who’d died before this one, his boots then confiscated. But if that were the case, why wasn’t there paper in both toes?

  Ethan unfurled the stuffing. A chill went over him; he crumpled the missive once more and put it back. He set the boots where they’d been and strolled away as if he hadn’t just read information that could put an end to the war.

  • • •

  Annabeth wanted to take back the note Moze had written the instant she shoved it into the dead man’s boot. But Ethan arrived soon after, and she was afraid he’d see her do so.

  As the only thing worse than setting a trap for a spy was being caught in that trap by the spy, she left the missive behind and ran away. If Ethan was innocent, nothing would come of this. The information would remain in the dead boy’s boot; no one would arrive at the false rendezvous but Moze. Then she could say “I told you so” forever and ever more. That might almost make a day of shaking hands and nervous sweat worth it.

  Later, she returned to the surgery ward and retrieved the dead soldier’s clothes and boots. Before she consigned the blood-drenched clothing to the top of a pile of similar items that would be burned, she searched the pockets for personal items, found none.

  Another man could use the boots. She would turn them over to a steward as soon as she—

  Annabeth stuck her hand to the bottom and smiled when she found the crumpled paper precisely where she’d left it.

  • • •

  Annabeth and Ethan returned to the easy rapport of their working relationship, pretending, at least in each other’s presence, that their kiss had never happened.

  When she slept, however, Annabeth dreamed of a lot more than his kiss. She couldn’t stop herself. He was brilliant and beautiful, and when he looked at her as if she were brilliant and beautiful, too, she couldn’t help but fall in love with him.

  Annabeth learned something new daily, sometimes hourly. Word spread of the physician at Chimborazo who saved more lives than he lost. Officers began to request his care. Soldiers arrived on stretchers with his name pinned to their bloody, torn uniforms.

  And the war raged on.

  The night of the false rendezvous detailed in the note came and went with no sign of Moses Farquhar. When Ethan asked her to accompany him on a picnic, she agreed with such enthusiasm, she embarrassed herself.

  What if Ethan were exactly who he appeared to be? What if she were?

  As she dressed in the only garment she’d brought from home—here she wore dark clothes like everyone else—a peach day dress with white sprigs dotted on the full skirt, she chided herself. Certainly she’d planted the note, but that didn’t make her a spy. Especially if no one had found it. Which meant no one had gone to the meeting and nothing had happened. If it had, Moze would have arrived to arrest Ethan by now.

  The clatter of a horse and buggy drew Annabeth to the door just as Ethan reined in. Seeing him arrive so grandly, she asked, “Is this yours?”

  He jumped to the ground and offered her a polite hand up. “The horse is, aye. The buggy is a loan from a grateful patron.”

  Ethan joined her and clucked to the horse, which did not appear at all comfortable with the clattering carriage at its heels. Nevertheless, the animal drew them away from Chimborazo toward the flowing land beyond.

  She’d often been dazzled by the beauty of the area that surrounded them. As Chimborazo was located on an elevated plain, they could see ships in the river harbor. To the west rose the spires of Richmond, and as they trotted east, once-lush farmlands surrounded them.

  The armies had moved away for a spell, ending the distant thunder of artillery. Annabeth had become so accustomed to it that for the first few nights after the rattles and booms faded, she could not sleep.

  “What do you mean by patron?” she asked.

  “One of the boys we saved was from Richmond.”

  “A lot of them are.” They worked in Virginia Hospital and the Confederacy’s capital contained a large population.

  “Not all of them have General Carstairs fer a papa. He asked what he could do fer me. I requested the use of a buggy. He sent one over directly.”

  “And the picnic?”

  Ethan cast her a sidelong glance. “I have sewed a stitch or two in a cook’s flesh. One was most happy to offer a basket.”

  They found the perfect spot in a grove of trees, a nearby brook providing water for the horse and a gentle music, along with the wind through the leaves. As he spread a blanket and she set out the food, they spoke of Chimborazo, of medicine and patients, of things that to others would be both boring and inappropriate but to them was fascinating.

  They ate cold chicken and corn bread, drank from the brook, then lay on the blanket and watched the clouds float by. Annabeth had never been so content. Or so in love.

  “You told me I shouldn’t apologize fer kissing ye.” His fingers curled around hers. “And I can’t.”

  When he turned his head, she could not help but turn hers. Their noses nearly brushed. The blue of the sky caused his gray eyes to shimmer like a lake at dawn.

  “I can’t,” he continued, “because all I want is to kiss ye again.”

  The next instant, she was in his arms. He tasted of sweet bread and cool water, with a hint of darkness just beneath. She wanted that darkness; she reached for it with her tongue, stroked his teeth, and he moaned.

  He rose above her, and the sun winked out.
She didn’t mind. It had been so bright, she felt blinded. Or perhaps he had merely blinded her. She wanted to pull him closer, have him lay that long, lean body over hers and do things she’d only heard about in whispers.

  He set his fingers in her hair; her pins sprinkled around them like hail; he rained kisses along her chin and jaw, pressed his lips to her neck, traced his tongue to the base of her bodice and tugged on it with his teeth.

  Her breasts seemed to swell against her corset. She wriggled, then gasped as her nipples scraped the tight, hard material. She wanted his hands on her. His mouth. His tongue and teeth. She curled her palms around his neck and pulled him closer.

  Sensations she’d never experienced, never imagined, rolled over and through her. Her skin was so sensitive, her stomach a jittery mess. And lower, where her legs met, she throbbed so uncomfortably, she couldn’t help but arch and squirm.

  The unexpected movement brushed his fingers against one breast. Before he could jerk away, she brought it back, laid his palm over the tingling swell. His thumb slid over the nipple, and her entire body tightened as her breath caught in her throat.

  “Please,” she whispered, and he pulled away, sitting up, moving back, not touching her any more at all.

  Annabeth lay there staring at the sky and wishing it would fall on her so she wouldn’t have to look at him. How mortifying to beg for more and have him deny her.

  “Beth,” he said, and her teeth ground together. “We can’t.”

  “Why?”

  His short, sharp exhale held a tinge of amusement.

  Fury consumed her and she sat up, too. “You think I’m a child. That I don’t know what I want.”

  “Ye are a child, and ye have no idea what yer askin’ of me.”

  “Teach me.” His gaze flicked to hers, then away. “Someone has to.”

  “Yer husband.”

  “Couldn’t you—”

  “No,” he snapped, and she flinched. At least he didn’t see her reaction, because he still couldn’t meet her eyes. “The war, Beth. Our part in it. My part. I can’t marry ye when I’m—” He paused. “I can’t.”

  “You’re already married.”

  “No!” His head jerked up. “It’s not that attall.”