Forsaken Dreams

by Marylu Tyndall

  Blake couldn’t help but smile at his friend. “But how do we orchestrate a medical emergency? Aside from shooting one of the passengers, that is.” He chuckled and shifted his weight off his bad leg. “Not that there aren’t a few I wouldn’t mind shooting.”

  “I am in agreement with you there.” James snorted. “Whatever we decide, we must hurry before she travels too far away.”

  Blake grinned at the devious look on the doctor’s face. His scheming was unexpected, to be sure. But welcomed with exuberance. “An injury of some sort.” Swinging about, he darted back down the path. “Not life-threatening, of course. But one requiring her attention.”

  “Something quite bloody, which would preclude me from assisting.” James hastened behind him.

  Blake lifted his sword. A ray of sunlight broke through the canopy and glinted on the metal. “I know just the thing.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Misery. A fitting word to describe Eliza’s present predicament. Perspiration coated her from head to toe and glued her underthings so tightly to her skin that she doubted she’d ever pry them asunder. Sharp branches clawed at the lace on her sleeves and tore her gown. A monkey had absconded with her hat. Mosquitoes and God-knew-what-other flying pests dove at her from all directions. Twigs and leaves twisted her hair into knots. Her throat gasped for water; her legs ached, and she was lost and alone in the jungle.

  And she’d only been walking for a few minutes!

  The idea of making it to Roseau on her own, the idea that had fired her determination to cross the tiny island without aid from man nor beast—or even permission from God—crumbled into nonsensical pieces in her mind. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t even brought along food or water.

  Halting, Eliza drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed it on her forehead. She gazed up at the greenery crisscrossing the sky where dozens of colorful birds flitted about and laughed at her foolishness. Oh fiddle! Let them laugh. No doubt once the passengers of the New Hope discovered she’d ventured out on her own, they’d all be laughing at her.

  Holding her valise before her like a shield, she forged ahead. Unable to take her trunk, she’d been forced to select only a few of her things: a clean chemise, petticoats, an extra pair of stockings, one other gown, two books, her journal, and the pocket watch Stanton had given her. The rest she’d given to Sarah and Angeline.

  A faint sound met her ears. Not the sound of a bird or insect, but the shout of a human.

  “Help! Help!” Muffled but desperate, the voice spun her about. Nothing but flora met her gaze. Still the sound continued. Wait. She recognized that voice. James. He sounded frantic. And that was enough to send her barreling back the way she had come. As she did, the voice grew louder, more defined, until within minutes, the shore appeared in shifting glimpses through the foliage. She halted and brushed aside a fern for a better view.

  Several yards down shore, Hayden and James emerged from the jungle, carrying Blake between them. Blood coated one of his legs. Or at least she thought it was blood. Passengers darted toward the men. Eliza spotted Max among them. If she showed herself, no doubt the beastly sailor would drag her back into the jungle to begin their journey, and her situation would disintegrate even further. Yet …

  The doctor broke from the crowd and leaned forward on his knees. He shook his head and turned away, clearly unable to bear the sight of so much blood. Several people tried to tug him toward the patient, but he resisted them and backed farther away. If he couldn’t treat Blake’s wound, Blake may be in danger of bleeding to death or infection.

  Alarm charged Eliza’s legs into action. Hoisting her skirts with one hand and her valise in the other, she swatted aside the leaves and dashed toward them. The crowd parted, surprise at her presence registering on their faces. But Eliza didn’t care. Trying to settle her thumping heart, she searched Blake’s prostrate form. The trousers on his left leg were ripped to the knee. A handkerchief, soaked in blood, covered the wound.

  “What happened?” She dropped to the sand beside him and gazed at Hayden.

  “Apparently, a sword accident.” Hayden’s tone carried an odd cynicism.

  “It’s nothing.” Blake groaned. “Help me up.”

  “We will do no such thing,” Eliza snapped. Her gaze traveled to the blood dripping on the sand beneath his leg. A shiver coiled around her. She peered beneath the cloth. “I must stop the bleeding. You’re going to need stitches.”

  “Oh my.” One woman sounded as though she would faint. Another drew her away from the crowd. Still the men huddled closer, staring at Blake as if he were performing a circus act. James pushed his way past them. Beads of sweat lined his face. His eyes locked on Eliza, avoiding the bloody leg. She knew from the terror flashing within them that he would be of no help.

  Drawing a deep breath, Eliza scanned the mob. “Give me your neckerchiefs, ties, anything you have to press on the wound.” The men stared at her numbly at first but finally began tossing her sashes, handkerchiefs, and neckties. She pressed them onto Blake’s leg. He moaned.

  “We need to get him to the ship.”

  “The doc can take care of him.” One man jerked his head toward James.

  “I quite agree. Let the doctor perform his duties,” Mr. Scott added. “You should be well on your way, Mrs. Crawford.”

  James’s gaze skittered over the crowd, at the sky, the trees, the shore, anywhere but on the blood oozing from Blake’s leg. “I fear I cannot, gentlemen.” He gripped his belly, dashed for the trees, and emptied the contents of his stomach.

  Dodd studied him, his brow wrinkling. “Well, I’ll be. I heard you were afraid of blood. I just didn’t believe it!” He burst out laughing and slapped his hat on his thigh.

  James ran a sleeve over his mouth and faced the crowd. “I told you I’m not a doctor anymore. Mrs. Crawford is all you have.”

  “If I don’t treat him properly, he could die,” Eliza said.

  The ship’s helmsman shoved through the throng, assessed the situation, then gestured toward the small boat. “Aye, we’ll allow the lady to tend to him.”

  Leg propped on a stool, Blake leaned back in the chair and watched Eliza tend his wound. He was pleased his ploy had gotten her back on the ship, not so pleased at the pain that coursed through his leg. Blast it, he hadn’t meant to slice so deep. He’d only meant to nick a bleeder so it would look far worse than it was. After all, he was accustomed to injuries such as this on the battlefield. What was one more if it saved Eliza’s life? Still, with the depth of the cut, he’d put himself in danger. Now, being so close to her made him wonder if it was worth it, for her presence only caused him more pain. Not the physical kind, but the kind that came from longing for her so desperately while hating her so intensely.

  James stood on the other side of the sick bay, guiding Eliza with words, eyes on anything but the bloody mess.

  Tenderly, she removed all the sashes and kerchiefs, now stained beyond use, and stared at the gash Blake had painstakingly made across his skin. The bloody gush had reduced to a dribble. She dabbed it with a clean cloth.

  “Ouch.”

  “Don’t be such a baby.” She smiled. “I’m sure you’ve endured far worse than this in battle.” She tossed the cloths into a basin and began peering and poking at the wound.

  Wincing, but duly chastised, Blake kept his outbursts to himself. Of course he had suffered worse injuries. That was expected in battle. But not expected from one’s own hand. Somehow, it made the pain far worse.

  Eliza wiped her hands on her apron and addressed James, who had taken to picking at a splinter in the bulkhead. “Stitches and a nettle poultice, Doctor? Is that what you would recommend?”

  “Precisely. Though a rinse of spirits would aid greatly as well.” He continued plucking the wood while Eliza opened the cupboard and then slammed it with a frown. “I seem to be fresh out of alcohol at the moment.”

  “Not to worry,” James said. “The nettle will do. Well”—he rubbed his h
ands together—“I can see that I am not needed here. I believe I’ll get some fresh air.” And before Blake could protest, the doctor fled the room.

  Leaving him alone with the traitor.

  Eliza’s gaze sped over Blake. Long enough for him to see the anguish in her eyes. The light that had sparkled so brilliantly in them the past three weeks had been doused by the hatred and anger from the crew. From him.

  “This will only take a minute.” She opened the glass case filled with medicines. “I know how difficult it must be for you to be in the same room with me.” Her voice carried no bitterness, only despair.

  Blake bit back the measure of sympathy that kept trying to rise. He had only done this to save her life, nothing more. Any honorable man would have done the same. Then why couldn’t he keep his eyes off her? With her back to him, she drew instruments and vials from the cabinet and arranged them on a tray. Her hair fell in spirals the color of maple syrup, dripping over her tiny waist. Even though it was embedded with twigs, Blake longed to run his fingers through the silky threads. Small tears littered her gown, and an abrasion marred her left arm, reminding him of what he’d heard while the sailors rowed him to the brig. Max accused her of leaving without him, of forging into the jungle alone, to which Eliza had responded that she’d rather be eaten by a panther than travel with him. Even in his pain, Blake had smiled. He swallowed. What was he thinking? He must not allow any sentiments to rise for this woman who had betrayed her countrymen—who had betrayed him.

  If his scheme worked and the passengers and captain allowed her to stay, he would tolerate her presence on board, but other than this single necessary moment, he would avoid her at all costs. He had done the honorable thing. Saved her from probable death.

  That was where his duty ended.

  Swerving around, she knelt before him and placed a tray on the cot. “This will hurt a bit, Colonel. Would you care to bite down on a piece of wood?”

  “I’ll manage, thank you.”

  She drew a deep breath and threaded the needle. “How did this happen? Seems an odd thing to occur while looking for pigs.”

  “Boar.” Her scent filled his nose, tantalizing his senses. Blake cleared his throat. “I was hacking through the jungle when my blade slipped.”

  “Hmm.” She slid the needle through his flesh.

  It felt like she’d set his skin on fire. Blake closed his eyes, listening to the slap of water on the hull, the hammering and shouts from above, the screech of pelicans. Anything to distract him from the searing pain.

  She must have noticed his discomfort, for she uttered a “sorry” that sounded genuine.

  Yet the pain was nothing compared to the suffering she had already caused him. “Pains of the flesh I can handle,” he muttered.

  She met his gaze and swallowed before continuing her work. “I never meant to deceive you.”

  Blake had never seen such lustrous eyes. “You didn’t even tell me your real name. How can that be unintentional?”

  She slipped the needle through and tugged on the thread. Her lower lip trembled. “You are right. I should have been truthful.” She continued stitching his wound, but Blake could no longer feel the pain for the agony in his heart. He’d hardened himself to it.

  “But then you wouldn’t have let me join your venture, would you?” she asked.

  Lantern light crowned her head and glistened on her moist lips—lips he had almost kissed. He licked his own. “No.”

  “I had to get away.” She clipped the thread and tied it. Then dipping her fingers into a poultice, she spread it over the stitches.

  “We all needed to get away.” Blake couldn’t tear his eyes from the way her delicate fingers caressed his skin. “From Yankees.” He sighed. “You betrayed everyone on board.” Good, now the anger returned.

  She cut a swath of bandage and wrapped it around his leg. “I was born and raised a Southerner just like everyone else on this ship.” She looked up at him. Her breath filled the air between them, her eyes just inches from his face.

  Blake looked away from the pain he saw in her gaze. He offered a caustic snort. “At least some of your story was true.”

  “It was all true.” Her eyes narrowed. “Everything I told you about my past. I simply changed the names and omitted one year of my life.”

  “A year in which you betrayed your country.”

  She jerked the bandage tight. Blake hid the pain from his face. With a huff, she gathered her tray and stood, turning her back to him. “Doesn’t my service as a war nurse count for anything?”

  “Ah, so you hoped to make restitution.”

  She spun around, her skirts knocking a tin cup to the deck with a clank. “No, that’s not why I served in the war.”

  “Why didn’t you just stay with your husband’s family? I hear the Yanks love Southern traitors.”

  “They tossed me out, if you must know.” She stooped to pick up the cup, her skirts billowing around her. “Although I wouldn’t have stayed anyway. They hated me for my Southern ties as much as you hate me for my Northern.”

  Emotion clambered up Blake’s throat at the agony in her voice. No. He would not allow any compassion to form for this traitor. His gaze dropped to the locket dangling against her bodice. She’d mentioned strained relations with her family in Georgia. Now he knew why. Still, why had they not taken her in after her husband died? “And your doting father? Was he the one who forced you into nursing? To recover the family name, perhaps?” He hated the sting of sarcasm in his voice.

  “My father is Seth Randal III, adviser to Jefferson Smith,” she announced, rising to her feet.

  Aghast, Blake stared at her. An adviser to the president of the Confederate States. With a traitorous daughter!

  “So, surely you see how a Yankee daughter would have ruined his career. He had no choice but to disown me the minute war was declared.” She swallowed and looked away. “I had no home to come back to.”

  Blake tore his gaze from her, clenching his jaw against his rising sympathy, despite his best efforts to push it down.

  She set the cup on the table. “I hope someday you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  Forgive her? Blake fingered the five black bands circling his arm. How could he forgive any Yankee for what they’d done?

  His thoughts drifted to Lieutenant Harkins, who had rushed to him from the battle of Antietam—blood splattered across his uniform, eyes wild from the insanities of war—to tell Blake of his brother’s death. Wounded, Jeremy had lain on the battlefield after the hostilities had ended while Union soldiers scavenged for valuables among the dead. Rebel doctors also wove among the injured, attending to those who could be saved. But they hadn’t made it to Jeremy in time before one particularly vile Union officer ran his injured brother through with his sword.

  All for a gold pocket watch the lad refused to give him.

  Blake knew that watch. Their father had given it to Jeremy when he enlisted. It had been their grandfather’s, who’d fought in the War of 1812, and his father’s before him, who’d fought in the Revolutionary War. A good luck piece, since neither had died in battle.

  Oh Jeremy, why didn’t you just give it to him?

  The thud of a boat against the hull jarred Blake from his nightmare. Orders and commotion filtered down from above. Hayden poked his head inside the cabin. “Parson Bailey’s gone missing.”

  Setting his injured leg on the deck, Blake rose, ignored the pain, and headed for the door. “I will never forgive you, Mrs. Crawford. Or any Yankee.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Blake stormed out of the sick bay, leaving a trail of loathing in his wake that sent Eliza reeling backward. Fighting back tears, she picked up the basin of bloody rags and placed it on the table. She would prefer to stay below and clean up, away from the scorn and hatred of everyone above, but Hayden’s statement that something had happened to Parson Bailey spurred her to wash her hands and follow Blake.

  The arc of a golden sun dipped behin
d palms, flinging glistening jewels over the bay. A breeze cooled the perspiration on Eliza’s brow and neck as she emerged from below. Passengers and crew mobbed the deck, encircling something in the center. Hayden and Blake shoved through them, and Eliza followed to find the sailors who had accompanied Parson Bailey in search of water. One of them leaned against the mast, holding a bloody rag to his head. Clutching her skirts, she started toward him, but his eyes, as sharp as black darts, halted her.

  “What is she still doing here?” Mr. Scott straightened the jeweled pin on his embroidered waistcoat, his voice incredulous. “The colonel appears well enough to me.”

  “Aye, I thought she was long gone,” a sailor said.

  Blake limped to stand beside the captain. “She tended my wound. And now she’ll tend Mr. Simmons.” He leveled a pointed gaze at the man in question. “Unless he prefers his injury to putrefy and rot his brain.”

  The sailor’s face blanched, and he beckoned Eliza forward with his eyes.

  “What happened?” Blake asked.

  Captain Barclay scratched his gray beard. “Seems our parson struck Simmons over the head and took off.”

  “Yep, that’s what he did,” another sailor added. He pointed to the man standing beside him. “George and I was”—he cleared his throat—“well, we was relievin’ ourselves when we heard Simmons yell out. When we found him, he was on the ground moaning, and the parson was gone.”

  Eliza inched toward Mr. Simmons, making no sense of their story. Lifting the bloody cloth, she peered at the swollen knot atop his head. Nothing too serious, though she should clean it and apply a poultice as soon as possible.

  “Is that true, Simmons?” the captain asked.

  “Aye, Cap’n. I sat down on a tree trunk to rest a spell, and the next thing I know, I’m waking up to these two ugly mugs swirling in me vision.” He gestured toward the other sailors with a chuckle. “And the parson is nowheres to be found.”