by Janet Dailey
"We came to see Eliza," Reverend Cole inserted quietly. "Where is she?"
"Granny El? She's upstairs in mother's room. I'll—"
"Thank you, I know the way," Diane said and moved toward the stairs. Reverend Cole trailed a step behind her. Sorrel hesitated, then broke into a run toward the back of the house, carrying the basket. Halfway up the stairs, Diane wondered aloud, "I wonder why Eliza is staying in Temple's room instead of her own?"
"No doubt there is a logical explanation," Reverend Cole replied with unconcern.
"I'm sure there is, but I can't think what it is. Eliza is a woman who likes her own things about her, not someone else's."
The door to the master bedroom stood open a few inches. Diane rapped on it and received an instant response.
"Who is it?" It was Eliza's voice, reassuringly strong and sharp in its challenge.
"It's Diane. Reverend Cole is with me. May we come in?"
"Diane." There was a thread of relief in the reply. Then came a sound like a troubled sigh. "Yes, come in."
More curious than ever, Diane walked into the room and came to an abrupt halt when she saw Eliza standing beside the bed, looking neither in pain nor ill.
"Eliza, what on earth—I was told—" Diane heard the distinctive click of a hammer uncocking behind her.
Diane swung around and went motionless. Lije stood against the wall behind the door, a revolver in his hand, pointed at the ceiling. Her gaze locked with his, and instantly she remembered all that had passed between them, all the passionate, compelling, and disturbing reasons they had loved and fought against that love. His presence had always revived old longings and hunger, and a sense of incompleteness that she had never been able to ignore. It still did.
He had lost weight, she saw. His face was thinner, giving a gauntness to his cheeks and hardening his features. His body was all lean, long muscle, toughened by the harsh demands of war. The shaggy ends of his glistening black hair curled onto the collar of his shirt. He had never looked more glorious to her.
"Lije," she whispered and almost ran to him, but the coldness in his eyes registered, reminding her of all the things that stood between them. The wind howled down the chimney, a mournful sound that tore at her. "What... What are you doing here?"
A low moan came from somewhere in the room. Lije stepped away from the wall and shoved the revolver in the holster strapped to his side, automatically fastening the flap over it as he ripped his glance from her and sent it slicing to the bed.
"My father was hurt." He walked past her straight to the bed.
Turning, Diane saw The Blade lying in the bed, his face twisted by pain. Temple hovered anxiously at his side, along with Susannah. At that moment Diane realized how completely she had blocked out everything, allowing nothing and no one to exist except Lije. Even now a part of her wanted to go on looking at him.
To make up for it, she bustled into action, pulling the pins from her hat, discarding it, the pins, her shawl and reticule on a nearby dresser. "What happened? How was he hurt? Shrapnel? A bullet?"
"He was shot," Temple answered.
"Where?" Diane crossed to the bed, joining Temple on the opposite side.
"In the left arm and again in the back," Susannah told her. "We were about to change the dressings when we heard voices downstairs."
"You gave us quite a scare." Eliza looked pointedly at Reverend Cole.
"I regret that." The kindness of compassion was in his glance. "But when we learned Susannah had told Adam you were injured, we grew concerned for your well-being. Now, of course," he paused and glanced back to The Blade, the compassion in his look intensifying, "I fully understand why Susannah told such a story."
"It was the only way I knew to get morphia for him."
"Of course, of course." He nodded in understanding. "Now, what can I do to help?"
"We were about to roll him on his side," Lije said. "He can help some, but it would be easier on him if you could give me a hand turning him. Watch his arm, though."
"His arm is broken?" Diane noticed the crude splint that immobilized it.
"Yes, but it's a simple fracture. There was none of the serious damage your father suffered," Temple told her, watching anxiously while Lije and Reverend Cole carefully rotated The Blade onto his right side. "It looked like the bullet ricocheted off the bone and came out the side of his arm after breaking it."
"What about the wound to his back?" Diane asked, then stepped forward when Temple began to remove the dressing over it. "Let me help with that."
Lije watched her, studying the pale, honey gold sheen of her hair and the deft sureness of her fingers.
From the moment he had recognized her voice, he had realized time had diminished none of his feelings for her; rather, it had intensified them. That angered him.
After the dressings had been removed, Diane leaned forward to inspect the wound. "It appears to be healing nicely."
She smiled in approval, drawing his glance to the alluring curve of her lips. He remembered the taste of them and the heat of their kiss. Even as the old longings surged through him, he checked them, ruthlessly.
"That opinion comes from your vast store of knowledge on the subject, does it?" he mocked, aware she didn't deserve such treatment, yet unable to stop himself.
Her glance flicked to him, a quick spark of anger showing in her eyes before her lashes came down to veil it. "I have had some experience with wounds lately," she replied in an even voice.
Reverend Cole spoke up in warm praise of her. "Diane spends part of every day at the hospital, tending to the needs of the sick and wounded."
"A beautiful angel of mercy gliding from bed to bed, laying cool cloth on one soldier's fevered forehead, holding the hand of the next," Lije mocked, resorting to sarcasm in order to overcome the jealousy that twisted through him.
The reverend gave him an indignant look. "You are very much mistaken, Lije, if you think her assistance is limited to such things."
"You are wasting your breath, Reverend Cole," Diane said in a gentle rebuke. "Lije prefers to regard me as the spoiled and pampered type who would never deign to turn her pretty little hand to menial tasks." Her voice was deliberately light, turning his ridicule back on him. "I shouldn't wonder that he thinks I would faint at the sight of blood. He chooses to forget I was raised a soldier's daughter. Spoiled, I may have been, but pampered, I never was."
Wisely, Lije said nothing. There was no excuse for the things he'd said to her, no justification, except that his mind was doing cruel things to him, reminding him of the way she had once felt in his arms and the love she had given him— reminding him that he would never again know these things. He felt the loss of it all over again.
In silence he watched while she applied a fresh dressing to the wound. There were no wasted motions, no fumbling. She did it expertly and neatly.
When she finished, Lije studied her with new respect. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"When casualties arrive from a battlefield, the doctors and orderlies are grateful for extra hands to help staunch the flow of blood from a wound. It truly doesn't matter to them that an attractive face might go with those hands." Her voice was all warm and honey-smooth, but her eyes shot fire, making it clear that she hadn't forgiven him for his earlier attack.
"You must have helped with many casualties," Lije said without rancor.
The fire went out of her eyes as she sobered. "Too many. Both at Fort Scott and Fort Gibson." She swung her attention to The Blade. "If you are ready, let's shift him into a more comfortable position so he can rest."
Again Reverend Cole joined Lije in gently lifting and turning The Blade, laying him flat. Despite the care they took, the movement drew a loud groan from The Blade as he grimaced with the pain.
Temple stroked his cheek in comfort. "Sssh, it's over. You rest now," she murmured and drew back, lacing her fingers together in tight worry. "I gave him a dose of morphia before we started, but the wound causes him so much pa
in."
"It's gotten better." Lije clung to the positive. "A few days ago he would have been screaming with it when we moved him."
"Be glad that he has any feeling, even if it is pain, Temple," Diane remarked, and Lije knew instantly from her tone that Jed Parmelee had lost not only the use of his arm, but all feeling in it as well.
"You're right, of course. I'm sorry." Temple turned to her. "How is your father?"
The corners of Diane's mouth dented in a quick smile. "Frustrated to be behind a desk, chafing to get back in action, and lobbying to be reassigned to his regiment at every opportunity."
Sorrel rushed into the room, then caught herself and slowed to a more ladylike pace. "Phoebe is fixing tea. She asked if you wanted it served in the parlor."
"The parlor will be fine." Temple's reply was almost lost in the sudden blast of wind that shook the house.
"Listen to that," Eliza declared with an amazed shake of her head. "As fiercely as the wind is blowing today, you would think it was March."
"There's a storm coming. Reverend Cole and I noticed the bank of clouds on the horizon as we were driving up." Diane paused, her glance running to the reverend in silent message. "I'm afraid our visit will have to be a short one if we hope to return to the fort before the storm breaks."
"You will stay for dinner, won't you?" Temple protested. "If you waited until early afternoon, you would still beat the storm. Surely, it can't be traveling that fast."
"Why don't we continue this discussion in the parlor?" Eliza suggested and began herding everyone toward the door.
When Temple hesitated to glance uncertainly in the direction of The Blade, Lije spoke up, "I'll stay here. You go ahead."
Temple touched his arm in thanks. "Good. I don't like leaving him alone."
But it was the quick look of relief and gratitude from Diane that Lije noticed. She was as eager to escape the strain of his company as he was to escape hers. After all these months apart, being with her again brought all the more sharply home the way things were—and never could be again.
Lije stood beside the bed, his gaze fixed on his father as he listened to the fading murmur of their voices. It was easy to pick out Diane's from among them. Too easy. Lije started to walk over and close the door to shut out all sound of it, then changed his mind and sat down in the chair by the bed.
He was alone, haunted by the image of her in the room tending to his father's wound, her eyes filled with tender compassion. He breathed in and swore the fragrance of her lingered, mingling with the other smells of the sickroom.
Lije dug the bullet from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers, then leaned back in the chair and stretched his long legs out But he could not get comfortable. He fixed his gaze on his father and watched the slow rise and fall of his chest as The Blade slipped deeper into a drug-induced sleep.
In silence, he waited for the time to pass, his fingers worrying constantly with the bullet. Every now and then he caught the smoky drift of her laughter, low and alluring, coming from the parlor area below, and his fingers would tighten their grip on the bullet. Outside the wind prowled.
The voices below grew louder, their direction changing, moving out of the parlor, their chatter nearly masking the sound of footsteps in the outer hall. His head came up, his glance shooting to the doorway, muscles tensing for an instant. But the footsteps approached from the direction of the servants' rear stairway; their quiet tread belonged to Deu. Lije relaxed his guard.
A moment later Deu walked in. "Miss Temple sent me to sit with Master Blade. She said you're to come downstairs and have dinner with the family."
Lije shook his head. "I'm not hungry."
"Miss Diane brought a big slab of smoked ham. Phoebe fixed it for dinner. One whiff of it will make your mouth water. You go get yourself some, Captain." When Lije started to refuse again, Deu added, "Sitting across the table from Miss Diane can't be any worse than facing a whole line of Yankee soldiers with those new repeating rifles—or Miss Temple when she finds out you aren't coming down."
Sighing heavily, Lije rolled to his feet. But it wasn't the thought of his mother's anger that swayed him. It was the realization that there wasn't much difference between being in the same room with Diane and being one floor above. Each was its own hell.
The others were already seated when Lije entered the dining room. Diane was on his mother's left. She looked up with only mild interest when he came in. Lije clamped his teeth together. All right, he thought savagely, if she can play that game, so can I.
"Sit down, Lije." Temple gave him a quick, smiling glance. "Nathan was about to give the blessing."
He walked directly to the empty chair at the head of the table and pulled it out. "Since the major can't join us, I'll sit here in his stead."
Recovering from her initial surprise, Temple instructed Phoebe to change the place setting. Lije sat down. Temple nodded to the reverend to begin.
"Almighty Father, bestow your blessings on those gathered here at this table, and . . ."
Lije tipped his head and watched Diane, her head bowed, her hands clasped in prayer. Again he was moved by the perfection of her beauty, the delicate line of her chin and the strong curve of her cheekbone. Her hair had the yellow gleam of sunshine, and her face was like ivory with a blush of rose beneath. Her lashes were long and, like her eyes, lethal. But she was no demure, genteel lady. She had too much laughter in her, too much lust for life; she was ready to do and to dare. That was what had attracted him from the first, much more than the power of her beauty. It was what still pulled him. Her pride and her passion, the strength of her character. He cursed her for it.
". . . name, Amen," Reverend Cole concluded.
"Amen," Diane echoed and lifted her head, her lashes sweeping up to reveal the clear, untroubled blue of her eyes. He cursed her for that, too, and removed his napkin from the table and unfolded it with a slight snap.
Phoebe carried in a tureen of potato soup and set it before Temple. "Have you, by chance, seen Shadrach lately?" Eliza directed her question to Diane as she passed her soup bowl to Temple.
"My father arranges to see him regularly. Shadrach keeps him apprised of all the happenings in the regiment. Of course, our striker fills us in on all the gossip that Shadrach feels is inappropriate to tell an officer," Diane replied, with a definite sparkle of laughter in her eyes.
"Shadrach was always very circumspect about such things." Eliza took the filled bowl from Temple and passed it to Susannah, beginning the chain until all die bowls were filled.
"Did you know that Shadrach is teaching about a dozen other colored soldiers to read and write during his off-duty times?" Diane dipped a spoon into her soup and took a taste. "Mmm, delicious."
"Yes, it is," Eliza agreed. "It doesn't surprise me in the least that Shadrach is teaching others. No offense to you, Temple, but he always was my best student," she declared, then sighed. "I miss him, but I am proud of him, too."
"You have reason to be proud of him. And Ike, too," Diane added when Phoebe returned to collect the soup tureen. "My father insists that he has never commanded better soldiers than the men in his Kansas First Colored Volunteers. At the battle of Honey Springs two months ago, they held the center, the most important position in the Union line, and withstood a charge of a Texas brigade, then attacked the rebel line and broke it. Afterwards General Blunt himself commended then-courage and valor. He said they had fought like veterans and stated that he had never seen their coolness and bravery surpassed." Phoebe stood a little straighter, her eyes bright with pride for her son. "That's high praise from the general," Diane told her. "And well-deserved, too. The regiment lost some good men at that battle."
"Good men were lost on both sides that day," Lije pointed out, drawing her glance.
For a moment tension filled the room. The war with all its divisive loyalties threatened to color the entire meal.
Then Diane smiled with a mocking humor. "I had forgotten we had a rebel at the table. I
will watch my words with more care."
"I doubt it," Lije returned dryly, drawing smiles all around. The uneasiness dissolved.
"He knows you too well, Diane," Reverend Cole observed. "Which reminds me—Eliza, do you remember that temperance meeting," he began, and the conversation became centered on shared memories of the past.
The soup dishes were soon cleared and the main course served, bringing a lull to the conversation. "Isn't it amazing how everyone stops talking the minute their plates are full of food?" Diane remarked.
"Food as delicious as this deserves our full attention." Susannah scooped another bite of sweet potato on her fork.
"It is good," Temple agreed, "especially this ham. It's so seldom we have meat for the table that this is a real treat."
"Now that the major is improving, I'll do some hunting, see if I can't change that," Lije said.
"I saw deer tracks behind the stables the other morning," Sorrel told him.
"That's a good indication there's game in the area." But he didn't think it would be wise to do any hunting on the plantation. It was too close to the Texas Road. A passing patrol might decide to investigate the sound of a single gunshot. "Although I don't think fresh venison is going to taste nearly as good as this ham."
"Then you do like it," Diane remarked in a voice that was much too innocent. "I'm glad. I was afraid you might have trouble swallowing Yankee ham."
"You're mistaken, I'm afraid." Lije smoothly speared another chunk of ham with his fork. "As tender as this is, it's definitely rebel ham. Some Yankee must have stolen it from a Confederate, so be careful that you don't choke on it."
Diane tipped her head back and laughed. The sound of it was like the trumpets at Jericho, tumbling all his carefully erected defenses. At that moment Lije wanted to snatch her from the chair and carry her off somewhere, anywhere, just as she had asked him to do all those years ago. But he hadn't been able to do it then, and he couldn't do it now, not when his father lay helpless in the second-floor bedroom.
The food on his plate became suddenly tasteless. Lije refused the steaming apple cobbler Phoebe had prepared for dessert and excused himself from the table to check on his father.