Heather Graham's Christmas Treasures

by Heather Graham

  "That's what war is all about," he returned, and there was just the slightest trace of bitterness in his voice. He sat on the edge of his desk, still watching her. "You should be pleased. Maybe we'll all die."

  "I don't want you to die," she said. "I just want you to go away."

  He smiled and lifted a hand in the air, then let it fall back to his thigh. "Well, we're doing just that. Tell me, Isabelle, will you miss me at all?"

  "No."

  He stood and walked toward her. She stepped back until she was against the door. It closed, and she leaned against it, but he kept coming anyway, until he stood right before her. He didn't touch her, just laid his palm against the door by her head. "You're lying just a little, aren't you?" he whispered.

  She shook her head, but suddenly she found that she could not speak, that her knees were liquid, that her palms were braced against the door so she could stand. He smelled of soap, of leather and rich pipe tobacco. His eyes were ebony coals, haunting her; his mouth was full and mobile.

  "I could die a happy man if you would just whisper that you cared a little bit," he told her, the warmth of his breath creating a warm tempest against her skin while the tenor of his voice evoked a curious fire deep within her.

  She kept her eyes steady and smiled sweetly. "I'm sure you say those words to every woman whose home you confiscate."

  He smiled slowly. "Yours is the only home I have ever confiscated." He leaned closer. "And you've known for some time how I feel about you."

  She wanted to shake her head again, but she discovered that she couldn't. His lips brushed hers, and then his mouth consumed hers as the roar within her soul came rushing up to drown out the rest of the world. She fell into his arms and felt the overwhelming masculine force of his lips parting and caressing her own; she felt the heady invasion of his tongue, so deep it seemed that he could possess all of her with the kiss alone. His hands, desperate, rough, massaged her skull, and his fingers threaded hungrily through her hair, holding her close. But she couldn't have left him. She had never known anything like that kiss, never known the world to spin in such delirious motion, never known the hunger to touch a man in return, to feel his hair, crisp and clean, beneath her fingers, to feel his body, his heat and his heartbeat throbbing ferociously against her breasts. The sweet, heady taste of his mouth left her thirsting for more and more, until sanity returned to her, some voice of reason screaming within her that he was the Yankee soldier who had taken over her home, a Yank who was leaving at last.

  She pulled away from him, her fingers shaking as she brought them to her lips.

  He watched her, his eyes dark and enigmatic, and sighed softly. His rueful smile touched his lips again. "Will you care if I come back, Isabelle?"

  "You're a Yank. I hope you never come back," she told him. She wiped her mouth as if she could wipe away the memory of his kiss, then turned and hurriedly left the room.

  But later, in her room, she lay on her bed and knew that she had fallen in love. Right or wrong, she was in love with him. In love with his eyes and his mouth and his voice... and with all the things he said. And he was riding away. Perhaps to die.

  She rose when she heard the sergeant call out the orders, and she raced down the stairs two at a time. She forced herself to slow down and walk demurely out to the porch. There he was at the head of his troops, his magnificent plumed hat in place, sitting easily on his mount.

  He saw her and rode closer, his horse prancing as he came near. He touched his hat in salute and waited.

  "Well, I do hope that you don't ride away to get killed," she told him.

  He smiled. "Not exactly a declaration of undying devotion, but I suppose it will have to do." He leaned closer to her. "I will not get killed, Isabelle. And I will be back."

  She didn't answer him right away. She didn't remind him that she could hardly want him to come back, for if he did, it would mean that the Union was holding tight to large tracts of Virginia.

  "As I said, I hope that you survive. And that is all."

  His smile deepened as he dug his heels into his horse's flanks and rode hard for the front of his line.

  Isabelle watched the troops until they were long gone.

  * * *

  News came to her in abundance as spring turned to summer. There was a horrible battle fought at Chancellorsville. The Union had over sixteen thousand troops killed, wounded or captured; the South lost over twelve thousand, and though the South was accepted to be the victor, she had received a crippling blow. Stonewall Jackson was mistakenly shot by one of his own men, and he died on May tenth from his wounds.

  Isabelle prayed for more news. She volunteered for hospital duty again. She worked endless hours, fearful that every Confederate soldier might be one of her brothers, anxious that any Union soldier who fell into their hands might be Travis.

  She was working in the hospital in July when news came through that a horrible battle had been fought in a little town in Pennsylvania called Gettysburg. The losses in human life were staggering. And General Lee and his Army of Northern Virginia were in retreat. Men whispered that it was the turning point of the war. The South was being brought to her knees.

  Isabelle hurried home, anxious to hear about her brothers, anxious to hear about Travis. In town she waited endlessly for the lists of the dead, wounded and captured to come through, and when she was able to procure a sheet she eagerly sought out her brothers' names. When she did not find them, she thanked God in a silent prayer, wincing as she heard the horrible tears of those who had lost sons, fathers, lovers and brothers.

  She swallowed tightly, wondering about Travis, and prayed that he had made it. Shaking, she drove her carriage home. And that night she admitted in her prayers that she loved Travis Aylwin, and that even if he was a Yankee, she wanted God to watch over him always.

  * * *

  In September she was busy picking the last of the summer vegetables from her small garden when she heard Peter calling to her anxiously. She came running around the house, wiping her hands on her apron. Peter was on the porch, anxiously pointing eastward. Isabelle shaded her eyes from the afternoon sun. Riders were coming. She could see them. Her heart began to beat faster. There were about twenty or thirty men on horseback. In Union blue.

  Her heart thudded. Travis was alive!

  But what if it was not Travis? What if it was some other Yankee who lacked Travis Aylwin's sense of right and wrong, even in the midst of war?

  She turned toward the porch and raced up the steps, shoving Peter out of her way. At the end of the hallway she tore open the gun case and reached for her rifle. With trembling fingers she attempted to load it. A hand fell on her shoulder, and she screamed, spinning around.

  "You're going to shoot me again? Damn, I didn't survive Chancellorsville and Gettysburg just to be shot by you, Isabelle!"

  He was thin, very thin and gaunt, and yet his dark eyes were alive with fire. She started to move, and the gun rose with her movement. His eyes widened, and he grabbed it from her, sending it flying across the floor. Then he swept her into his arms and kissed her hard, and she couldn't begin to fight him, not until he eased her from his hold. He clutched her tightly to him, his fingers clenched around her upper arms. "Tell me that you missed me, Isabelle. Tell me that you're glad I'm alive!"

  She swallowed hard. She was a Southerner. A Virginian. Her heart was alive, and it seemed that her breath had deserted her, but she could not surrender while the South fought on. She pulled away from him. "I'm glad you're alive, Yank, but I wish heartily that you were not here!"

  She ran upstairs, where she paced her room while the Yankees settled in. When darkness fell, she listened to his footsteps in the room beside hers. She heard them come close to her door; she heard them retreat. Again and again.

  It wasn't two weeks later that the Yankee rider came racing to the house. He slammed his way into the house, then hurried into the den with Travis. Isabelle came hurrying down the stairs, wondering what was happening. M
en were rushing into her house, knocking glass from the windows, then taking up positions with their rifles at the ready. Travis came out of the den in time to see her at the foot of the stairway. "Isabelle, you've got to get down to the cellar."

  "Why? What's happening?"

  "Rebels. Clancy's brigade."

  "Clancy's brigade?" she said, her face paling.

  "Yes, Clancy's brigade," he repeated. "They're on their way here. They heard that Yanks were holding this house and the town, and they want a battle."

  She was going to fall, she thought. She was too weak to stand.

  "Isabelle, what is it?"

  "Steven is with Clancy's brigade. My brother Steven."

  She saw in his eyes that he felt her pain, but she saw, too, that at that moment he was in command of his men, that this was war, and that he had to fight to win. "You've got to get down to the cellar."

  "No!"

  Travis turned to the butler, who had just come on the scene. "Peter! Peter, I don't know who is going to win or lose here today, but I'll be damned if I'll let Isabelle become a casualty of this war! Get her downstairs."

  Peter put his arm around her and rushed her toward the cellar stairs. Dazed, she let him force her down them.

  When she heard the first cannon roar, she screamed and clapped her hands over her ears. Then the house shuddered, and she heard a burst of fire and shells, and the screams of horses and men. She never knew what goaded her, but she couldn't bear it, knowing that Steven was out there, bombarding his own house. She escaped Peter and hurried out, ducking as bullets whizzed through the open windows. She didn't know what she hoped to accomplish—of course she wanted the Confederates to win. But there was Private Darby with his freckles, crooked teeth and easy smile, and there was blood pouring out of his shoulder, and he looked as if he was in shock. Isabelle crawled swiftly to the window by his side, ripping at her petticoat, finding cloth to bind up his wound, to staunch the flow of his blood.

  "Thank you, Miss Hinton, thank you," he told her over and over again. She stretched him out on the floor; then she heard Travis shouting her name in fury.

  "Isabelle!" It was a roar. He came rushing over to her, spinning her away from the window, pressing her against the door. "You could be killed, you little fool!"

  She didn't hear his words. She was looking out the window, and she wanted to scream. Steven, in his battered gold and gray, was coming nearer and nearer the house, sneaking toward the rear. He looked so close that she could almost reach out and touch him. Then he stiffened, and red blossomed all over the gray of his cavalry shirt, and he fell onto the grass.

  "Steven!" She screamed her brother's name and jerked free of Travis to race toward one of the windows. She felt nothing as she slipped over the windowsill with its shattered glass. She knew no fear as she raced across the battle line to her brother's silent form. "Steven, oh, Steven!" she cried desperately.

  "Get down!"

  Travis was behind her, throwing himself on top of her, bringing her down to the ground. Bullets flew by them, lodging in the house, in the ground so very near them. "Fool! You'll get shot!"

  "That's my brother, I will not go back into the house without him!"

  "You have to!"

  "He could die!"

  "Get in the house! If you go, I'll bring him back. I swear it. By all that's holy, Isabelle, I have a chance! You have none!"

  He rolled her away with a shove. Then, before she could protest, he was up himself, racing across the lawn to reach Steven. A Confederate soldier stood up, his sword raised for hand-to-hand combat. Travis was unprepared, and he fell with the man onto the verdant grass. Isabelle bit the back of her hand, repressing a sob. Then she saw Travis again, saw him reach Steven, saw him lift her brother and stagger toward the house.

  When he neared it, several of his own men hurried out to meet him. Steven was carried in and set on the floor of the parlor. Isabelle fell beside him, ripping open his shirt, finding that the bullet had pierced his chest, frighteningly near his heart. She staunched the flow of blood, discovered that the bullet had passed cleanly through him and wrapped the wound, with her tears falling down her cheeks all the while. She realized suddenly that the sound of the battle had receded, that no more guns blazed, no more shouts or Rebel yells rose upon the air. She turned toward the doorway. Travis stood there, leaning in the door frame, watching her.

  She moistened her lips. The Yanks had held their ground, but he had brought Steven to her. She owed him something. "Thank you," she told him stiffly.

  He smiled his crooked smile, doffing his hat. "It was nothing, ma'am, nothing at all."

  But then he suddenly staggered and keeled down hard on the floor, and she heard herself screaming as she saw the blood pouring forth from his chest.

  * * *

  Travis was going to live. The Yankee surgeon promised her that, although he had lost a good deal of blood, he was going to live. He was tough that way. Steven's injury was by far the worse of the two.

  The Yank worked hard over her brother. And he seemed to be an enlightened man, using clean sponges for each man, washing his bloodied hands with regularity. She could not have asked for better care for her brother. The Yanks had morphine, and they kept him out of pain. They gave him their best.

  But that night Steven died anyway. She held him in her arms as he breathed his last, and then she held him until dawn, sobbing. No one could draw her away from him.

  She was only dimly aware, when morning dawned at last, that Travis was with her. In breeches and bare feet, his chest wrapped in bandages, and none too steady on his feet, he came to her. He curled his fingers over hers, and she slowly released her grip on the brother she had loved. He whispered to her, he soothed her, and she fell against his shoulder and allowed her tears to soak his bandage. Then she realized who was holding her, and she tried to pull away, slamming her fists against him. She didn't see him wince at the pain, and, indeed, it meant nothing to him. Though he had seen men die time and again in war, he'd had little opportunity to see what it did to the loved ones left behind.

  And he loved Isabelle Hinton himself.

  "Let go of me, Yankee!" she ordered him, but he didn't release her. And finally her sobs quieted. In time he lifted her into his arms, and carried her upstairs, where he laid her on her bed.

  It was hours later when she awoke. And he was still with her. Bandaged and in his breeches, he stared out the window at the September fields where the war had come home. Where the blood of her brother still stained the grass.

  "Travis?" she whispered, and tears welled in her eyes, because she wanted to believe that it had all been a dream, a nightmare. He came to her bedside, silent and grave. He stared into her eyes and found her hand, squeezing her fingers. "I'm sorry, so very sorry, Isabelle. I know you would have rather it had been me, but I swear that we tried—"

  "Oh, God, Travis, don't say that, please! I—" She broke off, shaking her head. Her tears were very close to falling again; she felt that she had been destroyed in those moments when Steven had breathed his last. "Thank you," she said primly. "I know how hard you tried to save him. And you—you shouldn't be up. You're wounded yourself." Indeed, he seemed drawn and weary and haggard, and he had aged years in the months since he had been gone.

  "I'm all right," he told her.

  She nodded slowly. "So am I," she whispered.

  "I'm always here if you need me."

  "I can't need you!" she whispered.

  He inhaled deeply, but he released her hand, turned and left her.

  That afternoon they buried Steven. They stood by his grave, and the chaplain said that he had been a brave soldier, fighting for what he believed. Then Travis ordered that the musicians play "Dixie." Isabelle wasn't going to cry again, but she did. Then she ran away from the gravesite and retired to her room. She spoke to no one for days. Peter brought her food on a tray, but she ate very little of it.

  Steven had been dead for almost two weeks when a sharp tap on her do
or and then a thundering brought her from her lethargy. She swung the door open, furious that her privacy was being abused, but when she would have protested she fell silent instead. It was Dr. Allen Whaley, the surgeon who had tried so hard to save Steven. He looked grave and worried.

  "The captain is dying, Miss Hinton. I thought you should know."

  "What?" she gasped incredulously. "But he was fine! I saw him. He was fine, he was—"

  "He shouldn't have been up. He lost more blood, and he courted infection. Now he's burning up with fever."

  Isabelle raced to the door connecting her room to Travis's. She thrust it open and raced to his bedside.

  He was burning up. The bandage around his chest had been curtailed to cover just the wound, and the flesh all around it was slick and hot. Sergeant Sikes had been sitting by him, ineffectually dabbing at his flesh with a wet cloth.

  "Up, Sergeant!" Isabelle ordered quickly. She took over the task of soothing Travis's forehead and face with cool water. She touched his wrist and felt for his pulse. She flinched from the fire of his skin and glanced toward Doctor Whaley, who nodded his approval of anything she might try. She bathed Travis from his waist to his throat with the cool water. She began to talk to him, and she talked until she was hoarse.

  Later Doctor Whaley came and they rebandaged the wound. The doctor lanced it, and they drained the infection, then wrapped it again. And still his fever burned on.

  "Tonight will tell," Doctor Whaley told her. "If you would pray for a Yank, Miss Hinton, pray for this one tonight."

  She tried to pray, and she kept moving. She soaked him again and again, trying to cool him. She wiped his forehead and his cheeks; she saw where the war had engraved lines around his eyes, and she thought of how dearly she loved his fascinating, handsome face. If he died, he would have died for her, she realized. She had wanted Steven. He had gone for Steven for her.

  "Don't die, don't die, damn you! I—I need you!" she whispered fervently to him.

  It couldn't have been her whisper. It really couldn't have been. But he inhaled suddenly, a great ragged breath, and then he went so still that she thought he had died. She laid her ear against his chest and heard his even breathing. She touched his flesh, and it was perceptibly cooler. She started to laugh as she sank into the chair by his bedside. "Oh, my God, he is better!" She breathed the words aloud.