by Mysti Parker
“See?” Beau gestured at him and winked at Portia.
What is this crazy man doing? Embarrassment burned her cheeks. She had half a mind to clear up the confusion there and then so no one could label her a charlatan. But she had to admit, this little role-play was fun.
She forced a sweet smile. “That’s very kind of you… darling, but our money would be better spent on those less fortunate.” Slipping her arm through Beau’s, she pulled him away, adding, “Thank you, though,” to the young fellow, who looked quite discouraged.
Once they stood near the door and out of earshot, she whispered, “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?” There was that naughty boy smile again — it did look good on him, though she knew better than to think such things.
She couldn’t hold back a laugh. “You don’t play ignorant very well, you know.”
“All right, all right. It just seemed to fit the mood, that’s all. I can’t afford it right now anyway, so might as well have some fun. Besides, it wasn’t all a lie.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Which part?”
“The part where I said you should be spoiled.”
“What? I don’t… I mean…” Was that smoke coming off her face?
“You deserve it. Jonny’s really taken to you. Heck, even Sallie Mae loves you.”
She studied the floor, not sure how to respond to such a compliment, when she realized she still had her arm tucked into Beau’s. He covered her hand with his, where it rested on his sleeve.
“You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said. The deep smoothness of his gentle words calmed her nerves and cooled her cheeks.
She raised her head and really examined his eyes for the first time. They were actually hazel, a mixture of brown, green, and gray, but most of all, they were kind and honest. And they made her feel alive, he made her feel…
Pulling away, she tried to reroute the direction of this conversation. “So why were you looking at jewelry in the first place? Where’s everyone else?”
“Jonny went with Pa to look for some candy. Lydia’s with her mama at the milliner or some such place.” He averted his gaze, squinting into the sunlight. “I thought… I might need something soon, provided I can come up with the money.”
“Oh.” Swallowing hard, she felt like such a fool. Lydia, of course — he would need an engagement ring.
“You rode with Harry, right? Where did he wander off to?”
She shrugged. “Said he had to run an errand.”
“I guess he bought you that drink.”
“Yes.” She looked down at the bottle, having forgotten she still had it.
His usual scowl returned. “Maybe you should…”
“Maybe I should what?”
“Maybe you should let Harry court you.”
All the air left Portia’s lungs. The change took her by surprise — one minute she was laughing with Beau, lost in his eyes even, and the next, he was pushing her into Harry’s arms. Harry, whom she’d just rejected. She wasn’t sure why it hurt, except that she’d grown to enjoy Beau’s company, to actually like him. Had she gone too far? Said too much?
She pushed past him and out the door, intending to walk the two miles back to the house, to be alone with her thoughts and sort things out. But a wave of screaming echoed from her left. Folks ran in all directions. One man had a bag, and… was that a gun?
He leapt onto a horse and kicked it furiously. It reared up and whinnied. Then its front hooves hit the ground, and it broke into a run. From the corner of her eye, Portia spotted Jonny — right there in the street — in the path of the fleeing man on horseback. Her sarsaparilla bottle fell with a clunk on the sidewalk. All the blood drained from her head in one swift rush, leaving her sick and dizzy like dreams she had of falling.
Move!
Skirts in hand, she sprinted to Jonny and flung herself at him, knocking them both to the ground, while the horse bore down like a thundering brown tempest. She held Jonny tight against her chest, using her body as a shield.
Beau’s shout came out of nowhere. “Whoa, back, back!”
Portia dared a look over her shoulder just in time to see him waving his arms, sweeping them forward as though shooing the horse away. Mere inches from them, the horse changed directions and veered left.
A gunshot exploded overhead. The horse thundered past. Wind ruffled Portia’s dress and hair. Dust pummeled her face. She rose to her knees, scared to look, but Jonny was fine. Trembling all over, but fine.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, quickly looking him over. A crushed bag of candy seemed to be the only casualty.
Jonny shook his head.
Portia stumbled to her feet and turned around. “Thank you, B—”
Beau lay sprawled on the dirt. He didn’t move. Blood trickled down his temple.
She dropped to the ground and shook him. No response. “Beau? Oh God, someone help us! Please!”
Chapter Nineteen
This dream was a familiar one. There was the smoke for one thing — suffocating, thick smoke — that burned his eyes and made him cough. He thought the onslaught was over, but he lay very still, just in case. His ears rang so much he had to rely on his body and eyes for clues. The ground didn’t tremble anymore. Bullets weren’t cutting streaks through the smoke.
Time to go. He clawed his way up to level ground and stumbled into a run. The Rebels had never broken their line, but the aftermath was nothing to celebrate. Within a few yards, his path became an obstacle course of shrapnel and parts of men. After all these months, he still gagged at the sight, but he made his way through them. His feet slipped on blood and entrails, but he regained his balance and kept running.
Weak fingers brushed his ankles, and men moaned, “Help me please,” but he couldn’t. God knows he wanted to, but he had to keep going, he had to find Harry.
Stupid fool jumped out of the trench soon as the first shot rang out. Was he trying to get himself killed?
“Harry!” he screamed, aware that it might draw a sniper’s attention, but his voice was so hoarse, he doubted anyone farther than a few yards could hear him.
“Here.” A weak plea floated through the smoke.
As soon as Harry came into focus, Beau could see his mangled leg. It looked like a bear had torn off a chunk of Harry’s thigh for lunch, leaving behind shredded muscle, skin, and uniform. Blood flowed from the wound, soaking into the trampled grass. He’d be lucky to keep that leg if he survived.
“Come on,” Beau said, dropping to one knee as he slipped his rifle strap over his shoulder. “I’ll carry you.”
“No,” Harry shook his head. His voice was raspy, his face paler than hardtack. “Leave me.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
Beau started to slide an arm under Harry’s back so he could pick him up, but Harry shoved him away.
“No! Get out of here. Save yourself, Beau, go!”
“I’m not going anywhere without you.”
Harry tried to push him away and to kick him with his good leg. Beau took the weak blows, and being careful to keep Harry’s injured leg facing away from him, he lifted him from the ground and stumbled to his feet.
“I said leave me.” Harry sobbed against Beau’s chest. Tears left pale streaks through the dirt and blood on his cheeks. “Leave me here, just leave me.”
“I didn’t… come all this way… to leave my brother… here to die.”
Beau couldn’t catch his breath. Constant fatigue and hunger had weakened him more than he’d realized. He wanted to run but only managed a slow jog as he wove his way through body after body. At every step, his feet hit uneven ground, blown off hats, abandoned guns, and severed body parts. Ahead at the fort, their company waited. Some of their brothers in arms ran to meet them. He could reach them… just a few more yards… Harry still wept against his chest, and he felt like a full sack of feed in Beau’s arms.
“We’re going to make it,” Beau panted, driven on by the men hollering
, “Come on, hurry!”
Twenty yards from safety, a loud pop followed by lancing pain cut through his right shoulder. He pitched forward. Harry landed just out of his reach. More gunshots — fire exchanged on both sides, right above their heads. Beau couldn’t move his right arm — it was pinned beneath his body. He lifted his head and tasted blood.
Harry’s trembling hand reached for him, and Beau reached back…
Smoke billowed in, blinding him, but unlike the other dreams, a voice drifted through the swirling cloud. “Po? Where is Po?”
It was desperate and full of pain, that voice, and he felt it welling up inside him, felt his own lips forming the words, “Po? Where are you, Po?”
~~~~
Dr. Barton emerged from Beau’s room to the expectant stares of everyone in the hallway. “Bullet just grazed him. The horse probably knocked him unconscious, but he’s waking up and asking for someone named Po?”
Lydia, who had started forward, stopped short. “Are you… sure?”
“Quite — he’s repeated it over and over. If this Po person goes in and talks to him, it might help him come around fully. By the way, whoever stitched him up did a fine job.”
Portia looked to Ezra for permission to enter. “May I?”
“Go on in,” he said. “We’ll wait out here.”
She hugged Jonny against her side, happy to see the relief on his face. Stepping past a fuming Lydia, Portia opened Beau’s door and entered his room.
~~~~
Beau smiled. Not a dream. Portia shut the door quietly and walked to his bedside. Talk about a sight for sore eyes — literally. His vision blurred with each throbbing pain in his head. But he still noticed the blush on her cheeks. He scratched his bare chest, not entirely ashamed of letting her see him so exposed.
“You’re awake,” she said. The relief in her red, puffy eyes surprised him. How long had he been out? Was he worse off than he felt?
“Po.” He tried to sit up.
She held him down. “Lie still, now, or you’ll start bleeding again.”
Slowly, he lifted his fingers to find bandages wrapped all the way around his head. “Jonny?”
“He’s fine.”
“And you?”
She nodded. “You’re worried about me? You’re the one who was shot.”
“You been crying for me?” He touched her face, brushing his thumb over the smooth skin on her cheek. He hadn’t noticed her freckles until now.
“No.” She pulled up a chair and swiped at her cheeks. “How are you feeling?”
Pain still pounded an insistent drum in his head. “I’ve felt worse. Where’s everyone?”
“Outside in the hall.”
“Lydia?”
She exhaled and rolled her eyes. “She fainted when she saw the blood. Had to lie on the sofa while Harry and Ezra found Dr. Barton. She’s fine now.”
“Figured as much.” Lydia didn’t seem the type to handle body fluids with any measure of grace. Yet her absence didn’t upset him. He wanted to spend a little time with the woman who had saved his son’s life.
“The bullet only grazed you, so we brought you back here, and I stitched you up.”
“You can do that?”
“Of course.” He must have looked surprised, so she continued, “I’ve been sewing my whole life. Stitching up wounds isn’t much different, just messier.” Her face wrinkled up in an adorable grimace.
It hurt, but Beau couldn’t help but laugh. “So I’m your test subject?”
“Lucky for you, no. During the war, men from both sides found their way to my door, asking for help from me and Ellen. Some had minor wounds that needed stitching. Others were starving. I did what I could, but…”
“But what?”
She fiddled with the handkerchief on her lap. “There’s always a cost.”
“Tell me. What happened?”
“Typhoid.” Fresh tears dripped from her eyes as she twisted the handkerchief into a tight rope. “A Rebel came to the house sick — a boy both Jake and I knew. He was so young, I took pity on him. His folks were gone, and he had no one else. I let him have a bite to eat. I gave him some of Jake’s clothes and washed the filth from his. Not a week later, Abby took ill. I should have turned him away. She’d still be here. My baby would still be here.”
She buried her face in her hands. Wracking sobs shook her body. Beau sat up, steadying himself as the room wobbled. He leaned out over the edge of the bed and took her in his arms. Gently, he stroked her half-fallen hair. Things like money and marriage seemed trivial now; his heart ached for Po. On one level, he understood her pain. He’d lost Claire, but to lose Jonny, too? He’d have probably put a bullet in his head.
“Shh. It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault. You did what you could, like any good woman would. And you put yourself in harm’s way for my son. I can’t thank you enough for that.”
After a little while, her crying subsided and her body relaxed, but she remained in his arms and rested her head on his shoulder. Beau closed his eyes, glad that he could offer her solace.
“Beau,” she said, her voice muffled against his bare skin. “What was it like? The fighting, I mean. What was it like out there?”
His jaw tightened as he released her and sat up again. “I don’t think you need to hear about all that now.”
“What are a few more tears in the sea I’ve already shed?”
Elbows resting on his knees, he hung his aching head. He’d never spoken about the specifics to anyone, not even Harry, though they’d lived through the same hell together.
“I want to know,” she said, her voice quaking. “I heard the cannons and gunfire, and I heard stories from the men who sought our help. But Jake never talked about it in his letters, and I never got the chance to ask him face to face. My mind sculpts images of what he must have seen and felt, but I can’t sort truth from fiction. It haunts me, not knowing, and I fear I might lose the courage to ask about it again.”
A war raged inside him, but courage won the battle. Po’s husband fought and died out there, so she deserved to know the truth of how things really were. Or at least what he could remember of it. He swallowed hard and forced himself to speak.
He scratched the stubble on his jaw, focusing on the rug and her little feet. “No one thought the war would amount to much when it started. We enlisted and went through training, learned about formation, how to use cover fire, things like that. It was all orders and marching, forming columns and dressing the line. We got to know each other, and we learned to hate the enemy.”
Portia let out a soft groan. He looked up to see if he’d said too much. Her fingers curled around the ends of the armrests with white-knuckled tension, and she averted her eyes. But she hadn’t moved, and she didn’t ask him to stop, so he continued.
“Once the real fighting began, everything changed. One minute you’re cuttin’ up with your friends, and the next minute you’re watching them get blown apart. And you forget all the strategy, you forget the reasons you’re there in the first place. All you want to do is stay alive. You want to get back home. Nobody’s your enemy — not in the smoke and blood and sweat. It’s life or death, shoot and don’t think. Just get back home.”
She turned to him again, tears budding from the corners of her eyes. Without a word, she reached for his hand and took it in both of hers. When she nodded for him to continue, his muscles relaxed; her strength gave him the courage to keep talking.
“And when it’s all over, if you’re not dead or wounded, you have to bury the bodies. You have to bury your friends. And God… some of them were just boys, Po. Little boys who would never get back home.”
He didn’t realize he was crying until she moved from the chair to sit on the bed beside him. Without hesitation, she gathered him in her arms. Resting his forehead on her shoulder, he wept as quietly as he could and dried it up with a few sniffs. Someone would be in any minute to ask about him. They didn’t have much time.
He l
ifted his head and cupped her cheek in his palm. She shivered as he searched her eyes. They matched her hair — honey-brown and beautiful. “Do you hate me?”
“No,” she whispered. Tentatively, she touched the bandage on his head. “I can’t hate you. You saved my life.”
Beau drew her closer, feeling her sweet, warm breath on his chin. He had to kiss her, just once…
The door opened. “Any change? Oh…” Pa stood there, half shocked, half grinning.
Beau broke away from Portia, sitting up straight on the edge of the bed. Jonny ran in and threw his arms around him. He held his son while Lydia peered over Pa’s shoulder, glaring daggers at them.
Chapter Twenty
May 8, 1866
Dear Ellen,
I didn’t aim to write you two days in a row, but I had to share this news with you. Yesterday, at Market Day, we had a wonderful time, except that Harry A wretched incident occurred when a robber criminal tried to flee on horseback and headed straight at Jonny. I threw myself on him, knowing dreading our departure from this earth in that manner. Mr. Stanford intervened, waving his arms and shooing the animal aside. But that man, whoever he was, shot Beau Mr. Stanford.
He’s fine. By God’s grace the bullet only grazed him. I stitched his wound. When he woke we spoke at length about the war and the things he saw because I had longed to hear them from Jake’s mouth, but — What happened next, I don’t know how or why, but we came so close to ki being more intimate than an employer and employee should be. What ails me most is that Miss Clemons might have witnessed it. To my knowledge, I have never been viewed as a woman of loose morals, but now I dread facing anyone.
It’s already well past sunrise, and no one is stirring. The events yesterday must have taken their toll on everyone, though I’ve been up for a good while. Lessons will be late, later still for I must help Bessie prepare brunch for Miss Clemons and her acquaintances. It’s one of their charity meetings, I believe, though the few things I’ve knitted still sit unused in the parlor. Should they not be taken today, I will deliver them to the preacher. He should know who would benefit most from them.