Bridger leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes.
He was grateful for the funds, since he had none of his own, and for the pistol, too—although that came with the subtly stated proviso that he “consider past favors” before shooting any Yankees he might happen upon.
Alas, the letter was a reminder of Rogan’s fond sentiments toward Caroline Hammond. Bridger had gotten that message, no question about it.
Lying there, he was forced to confront the truth: he wanted Caroline, too. Wanted her in all the ways a man wants a woman, but it was far more, this wanting of his...
He could imagine sitting across from Caroline at meals, listening as she read aloud to him by lamplight, watching the play of emotions flicker across her face, giving her gifts, from field daisies in fruit-jar vases to diamonds and pearls. And, yes, he imagined giving her pleasure, hearing her soft cries and whispers in the sweet secrecy of the night,
Bridger gave himself up to the vision, was in fact helpless before it. There was only Caroline, a Madonna, his Madonna, clothed in calico and light.
21
Hammond Farm
July 15, 1863, evening
Caroline
In the end, Mr. Splott did not pass the night in Caroline’s barn, nor did he stay for supper. After his mules had rested, drunk their fill at the water trough and grazed on thatches of grass somehow overlooked by the army’s livestock, he announced that he had a train to meet in Harrisburg two days hence, and mustn’t tarry. If he wasn’t there to sign for the goods he was expecting, he informed her, heaven only knew where they’d wind up in times like these. And there he would be, a peddler with nothing to peddle, and done out of the advance payment he’d sent his wholesaler.
When Caroline had put together a cold meal, to be eaten at his convenience, he accepted graciously. As he left, she said she appreciated his stopping by to deliver the gift of a dog, and noted that the irony of her words had escaped him.
Two hours later, she sat in her parlor, an unopened packet on her lap, Rachel and Sweet Girl at her feet, asleep in a tangle of little girl and dog, having happily exhausted each other.
Jubie entered on tiptoe, carrying a cup and saucer. “I brought you some warm milk,” she whispered. “Reckoned tea might keep you awake.”
“Thank you,” Caroline said.
Jubie set the cup and saucer down within Caroline’s reach, but her eyes were on Rachel and the dog.
“You want me to put that critter out for the night?” she asked. “Maybe shut it in the barn?”
Caroline smiled and shook her head. “We’ll let her stay in the house, I think,” she said.
Jubie eyed Sweet Girl. “She isn’t an inside dog,” she remarked. “She’s dirty, for one thing. Might give Rachel fleas.”
Caroline repressed a shudder, but her mind was made up. Sweet Girl needed a bath, and Rachel probably did, too, but she’d already checked the animal for fleas and ticks and found none. The poor little creature was half-starved, and it cowered when anyone other than Rachel approached, as if expecting a kick or a blow.
Clearly, it had been mistreated, possibly abandoned, too.
There was so much misery in the world, and so little one could do to relieve it. Surely, though, every kindness, however small, counted for something.
Besides, Rachel already adored Sweet Girl. Even if Caroline had wanted to turn the dog away, she wouldn’t have had the heart to disappoint her daughter, especially now, when there were so many reasons to grieve.
Realizing that her friend was still waiting for a reply, Caroline said softly, “Don’t worry, Jubie. Tomorrow I’ll give them both a good scrubbing, and if there are any—messes—I’ll do the cleaning up.”
Jubie nodded and glanced toward the front window, darkened by night. “Do you think Enoch is going to be back soon?”
Caroline had been listening for the sound of the team and wagon herself. It wasn’t like Enoch to miss supper, or delay his evening chores, but she hadn’t begun to worry just yet. “I imagine he had plenty to do at my grandmother’s house,” she said. “He’ll be here anytime now.”
Jubie didn’t look convinced. “Suppose he ran into trouble somewhere?” she fretted.
Caroline thought it was more likely that Enoch had simply been delayed. Besides carrying a wagonload of things into Geneva’s house—provisions to replace the food looted from the pantry, medical supplies and Geneva’s several trunks and satchels—he might have volunteered to chop firewood, if any could be found, board up broken windows, set overturned furniture to rights. It wasn’t inconceivable that, after doing all these projects, he’d had to turn around and do similar chores for a number of the neighbors.
“I’m sure Enoch is safe,” Caroline said gently. “And there really isn’t anything we can do except wait.”
Rachel made a whimpering sound and sat up, blinking. Then, seeing Sweet Girl beside her, also awake, she brightened.
“Sweet Girl needs to go outside,” she said. “I don’t think she can use the chamber pot.”
Caroline smiled. “I’ll go with you,” she said, about to set aside the packet Mr. Splott had left with her.
“You stay right here and rest,” Jubie told her. “I’ll tend to Rachel and her dog. It’ll give me a chance to check and see if Enoch is coming.”
Caroline thanked Jubie again, and the trio bustled out of the room, headed for the side door.
Then, having delayed long enough, she unwrapped the parcel. Inside, she found a sealed envelope with her name written across the front in strong script, slanting to the right and firmly underlined. She held the letter for a minute or two, savoring the mere fact of it.
Now that Jacob was dead, such treats would be few and far between, if they came at all.
She heard Jubie and Rachel come back into the house with the dog, and climb the rear stairs. Rachel kept up a steady stream of chatter, telling Jubie that she meant to teach Sweet Girl tricks, and that would be just as good as a circus, wouldn’t it?
Caroline smiled, even as tears burned her eyes. How resilient children were, she thought. After losing a parent, cringing at the sounds of a ferocious battle staged only a few miles from her house, confused by the sudden appearance of hospital tents in the yard where she usually played, undoubtedly frightened by the screams and cries of wounded soldiers, a dog was able to distract her and bring her joy.
Caroline set the letter aside and examined the other contents of the parcel. The first thing she noticed was a thick songbook, full of lively tunes. Inside the bright blue cover, Rogan had written, “Your music soothed the souls of men in sore need of warmth and comfort, mine included. Thank you.”
Caroline sighed. She missed Rogan’s company, wished he was there with her, in the lamp-lit parlor. Perhaps she would have gone to the harpsichord, opened the songbook and played for him.
The thought inspired a certain degree of guilt; if she was going to miss someone, it ought to be Jacob, not Rogan McBride.
She glanced up at the ceiling. But if Rogan was still here, she thought, he would have served as a kind of buffer between her and Captain Winslow, whose presence troubled her for reasons she couldn’t explain.
She let the songbook rest on her lap while she looked at a smaller packet, wrapped in a fold of delicate tissue paper, marked with Rachel’s name. Inside, she found a rainbow of colorful grosgrain ribbons for the child’s hair.
Rogan had forgotten no one. He had also enclosed a pouch of tobacco for Enoch, a lace-trimmed handkerchief for Geneva, and a blanket for Jubie’s soon-to-be-born baby.
It was like Christmas, as it had been before the war, she reminisced. But then the familiar sound of a team and wagon coming slowly up the road brought her back to the present. Jubie hurried down the stairs. “Is that Enoch, come home?” she asked, sounding eager and desperate at once.
“I’m sure
it’s him,” Caroline said. She stood, placed the gifts on the seat of her chair and followed Jubie along the corridor and out the door.
Indeed, Enoch was back, driving the rattling wagon, its lanterns swaying on either side.
Jubie ran up alongside the wagon before he’d brought it to a full stop and cried, “Where were you?”
Enoch, a hulking shadow, threw back his head and gave a great shout of laughter. “I’ve been about my business,” he said. “What—were you worried about me?”
Oh, my, Caroline thought, with a soft laugh of her own.
She wasn’t needed here.
She turned around and went back into the house.
In the parlor, she picked up the letter from Rogan, still sealed, tucked it in her apron pocket and headed for the stairs.
Her room was rimmed in pale moonlight, and Caroline could easily make out her daughter’s small form, resting at the very edge of the mattress, one arm dangling toward the dog. She went to the desk, which stood beneath a window, awash in silvery light.
Then she took out the letter and laid it squarely in the center of the desktop.
* * *
Before she could read it, she heard a thumping sound somewhere in the near distance, and she turned quickly, thinking Rachel must have tumbled to the floor, in the grip of some dream.
But Rachel was still huddled at the side of the bed, sleeping.
Another thump came.
Frowning, Caroline hurried out into the corridor, found matches and a candle on the hall table, lit the wick.
“Jubie?” she called softly.
No answer. Jubie was probably outside with Enoch or in the kitchen house, fixing his supper.
Caroline waited, listening hard. She had heard something.
A hoarse voice, cursing, confirmed this, even before a line of light appeared beneath the door to the room that had been Rachel’s.
Caroline set the candle back in its place, then blew out the flame. Reluctantly, she approached Rachel’s bedroom door and knocked.
“Captain Winslow?” she called quietly. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” came the rather terse reply. “Everything is fine.”
Caroline drew a deep breath, releasing it as she grasped the doorknob and turned it, then stepped into the room.
Bridger stood at the window, his good hand braced on the wide sill. He still wore the shirt Enoch had lent him and, incongruously, the military trousers Rogan had left.
He turned his head, looked back at Caroline over his shoulder, scowling. “I told you,” he said, carefully enunciating each word, “that I’m fine.”
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?”
He turned away again, rested his forehead against the window glass. “Caroline,” he said evenly, “please just go to bed.”
“This is my house, Captain Winslow,” she said. “And I can do as I please, thank you very much.”
“Fair enough,” he said, with a sound that was almost a chuckle.
“Let me help you,” Caroline said, starting toward him.
“I do not need your help,” he informed her, warning her off with his tone and the glare in his eyes.
She stopped. “Then I’ll get Enoch.”
“Blast it,” he growled. “I am all right. Please, just go away.”
Caroline did not move. Instead, she folded her arms and looked around, assessing the situation. He’d lit the lamp Jubie had placed on the bureau when he’d been brought to this room, no mean task for a man with one arm bound up in a sling. He’d managed to get dressed, too, at least partially.
“Good heavens,” she said. “You meant to leave, didn’t you?”
Bridger Winslow lowered his head, closed his eyes. Said nothing.
“Are you out of your mind?” Caroline overcame all trepidation then, walked over to him, taking hold of his uninjured forearm with one hand and placing the other at the small of his back. Steering him toward the bed.
He muttered something, a curse, a protest, Caroline wasn’t sure which, but he leaned against her, allowing her to lead him.
He collapsed heavily onto the mattress, nearly bringing Caroline down with him. She stumbled back a step, in an effort to remain upright.
Bridger had struck his wounded shoulder when he’d fallen onto the bed, and he was grimacing with pain. Blood began to seep through his bandages and the borrowed shirt.
Caroline bent and tried to uncover the wound, to see what damage had been done, but he caught hold of both her wrists, and his fingers rebuffed hers. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face glistened with sweat.
“Please—leave—me—alone. Please.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Captain,” Caroline said. A sudden calm had come over her.
She heard footsteps on the rear stairway, and knew, without looking, when Jubie reached the doorway.
“Miss Caroline?” Jubie’s voice was tremulous.
“Get Enoch,” Caroline said. “Quickly.”
Jubie hurried away.
“Damn it.” Bridger abruptly released her hands.
Holding her breath, trembling with determination and hesitancy, in equal measure, Caroline, as gently as she could, opened the shirt, and removed the blood-soaked bandage.
Blood pulsed from the wound, and Caroline threw off the bedclothes, bunched a corner of the sheet in one fist, and pressed down hard on the injury.
He groaned and closed his eyes again. His breathing slowed, deeper than before, and Caroline wondered if he’d lost consciousness.
“Captain Winslow,” she said, pushing down on the wound with both hands now, putting all her strength into the effort.
“Bridger,” he murmured.
“Bridger,” Caroline relented. “I only wanted to stop the bleeding—and make sure you hadn’t swooned.”
He didn’t open his eyes, but a muscle twitched at one side of his mouth. “I do not swoon,” he said, with considerable effort. His lips were dry, and he moistened them with his tongue. “But in case...it matters, that hurts.”
Enoch was coming up the stairs now, hurrying.
Sweet Girl began to bark.
Rachel woke and called, “Mama!”
“What’s the trouble?” Enoch asked, a little breathless.
He stood at the foot of the bed, and Caroline spared him a single glance. “I’m sorry if I’ve alarmed you,” she told him, still bearing down on the wadded sheet. “Captain Winslow has reopened his wound, I’m afraid. I thought I would need your assistance, but he’s settled down.”
“You fixing to push that man right through to the floor?” Enoch asked. He sounded relieved, even slightly amused.
“Please stop her before she kills me,” Bridger said. That twitch was there again, beside his mouth. His eyes were still closed.
“Let me have a look at the man’s shoulder, Missus,” Enoch said calmly.
Carefully, she lifted the sheet and they both peered at the wound. The bleeding hadn’t stopped completely, but it had slowed.
“What do you need, Missus?” Enoch asked.
“Would you get some bandages and disinfectant?” The voice was Jubie’s.
Glancing back, Caroline, now seated on the side of the bed, saw the young woman standing in the doorway. “Heat up some water, too,” Caroline said.
Enoch nodded and went out, Jubie stepping aside to let him pass.
“I’ll look after Miss Rachel,” Jubie offered. “Once she’s asleep, I’ll be back to help you.”
“I don’t want to sleep,” Rachel protested. She’d come to stand next to Jubie in the doorway.
“Well,” Jubie said, turning away with Rachel’s hand in hers, “that little dog of yours does.”
Caroline smiled, grateful, and when she looked at Bridger again, saw that his eyes were open, and he was
gazing up at her with...admiration.
“You are a very difficult man,” she said, and felt herself blush at the tenderness in her tone.
“And you are a beautiful woman.”
Caroline averted her eyes. “You mustn’t say such things.”
“Nevertheless, I did. And it’s true.”
“Please,” Caroline said. “Don’t. I’m—”
“A widow,” he finished for her. “I understand that, Caroline. I know you need time to grieve. And, God help me, I know my best friend is taken with you.”
“You’ll be leaving soon,” Caroline said, overwhelmed.
Bridger raised his good hand, cupped it gently behind her head and pressed until her face was nearly touching his.
She knew she ought to resist, to pull back, but she didn’t.
And then he kissed her.
It was tender at first, a mere brush of his lips against hers.
A column of sweet fire seemed to spring up within her.
Stop, she thought, and was stunned to realize the plea was meant for herself, not for Bridger.
He deepened the kiss, and Caroline felt as though she was in freefall, tumbling head over heels into a chasm so deep it might reach all the way to the center of the earth.
A sound from the doorway broke the spell.
Caroline bolted upright, and Bridger released her, but allowed his hand to drift slowly, lightly, down over her shoulder and along the length of her back.
She trembled.
Bridger smiled.
“I have the bandages here,” Enoch said from the doorway, his voice a little too loud. “Some medicine, too.”
Caroline could not look at him or, for that matter, at Bridger.
Jubie returned, too. “You ought to get yourself to bed, Caroline. Enoch and I can handle this.”
Caroline leaped to her feet. “Thank you, Jubie,” she said quickly. “I am tired.”
With that, she hurried from the room, avoiding Enoch’s eyes, and Jubie’s.
The Yankee Widow Page 26