“No. I have set that as my goal and I will achieve it.”
“Do you always achieve what you set out to do?”
“Almost always. Don’t you?”
“Almost always.” I straightened the blanket on Kindle’s bed and sat on the edge.
He took a few deep breaths. Finally, his brow cleared.
“Does it make you nervous?” he asked.
“What?”
“That I always achieve my goals?”
“I suppose it depends on what goal you are speaking of.”
“Getting back in the saddle.”
“In that case, no. I have no doubt you are going to best my prediction. As your doctor, however, I will continue to preach caution. I know enough of you from our short acquaintance to suspect you are a determined man.” He shifted in the chair. “Tell me when you want to move back.”
He straightened his injured leg. “It’s nice to sit.”
“Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry. Why do I feel worse today than yesterday?”
“Your body is over the shock of the surgery and is working to heal you. It has a difficult task ahead. Which is why you need to rest as much as possible and eat, even though you don’t think you’re hungry. When the sun rises, I will go to the bakery and beg a loaf of bread.”
“How was your day?”
“One of my five patients died. Private Howerton. Of infection after an amputation.”
“Thank you for moving me.”
“You’re welcome. I met the local newspaperman.”
“Pope? Nice man. Saw him fight once before the war.”
“He wants to write about your surgeries. He knew everything. I told him there was nothing I could add.”
“I’m not surprised. News travels fast in the West.”
I flushed. “Does it?” I asked in a weak voice. Even if I had manipulated Pope into not writing about me, how long until the story my survival and actions with Kindle traveled from campfire to campfire and back East? Or until Pope decided to claim the bounty for himself? One more thing to worry about.
“Pope is not your typical newspaperman. He’ll stick to the truth.”
I laughed. “Oh, he’s typical enough. What do you know about Welch?”
“Not much, other than his disdain for treating Negro soldiers. Luckily, my men are a healthy lot. Why do you ask?”
“I accidentally overheard a conversation between Welch and Franklin today.”
“Franklin recommended Welch to the previous post surgeon as a civilian doctor not long before that man died.”
“Lucky for Welch he didn’t have anyone looking over his shoulder.”
“What do you mean?”
“After seeing how many of the men in the hospital were playing Old Soldier—easily seventy-five percent—and hearing Franklin and Welch, I think Welch was being paid by soldiers for treatment. When they aren’t sick.”
“Unfortunately, many of the men we have are crooks and thieves. They join under assumed names to escape the law. No surprise they would do whatever they can to get out of work. Welch taking advantage is less surprising.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it does. It’s up to the individual officers to watch out for and discipline his men. And it is up to Foster and Mackenzie to manage the officers.”
“Foster thinks I’m a hysterical woman.”
“Why would he think that?”
I shrugged. “Would you like to play backgammon? I’ll get the board.” I rose and went into the parlor to retrieve the game. I held the box against my chest and silently berated myself. I’d determined earlier to not mention my confrontation with Foster to Kindle. He would support his superior officer and I frankly wasn’t in the mood to be lectured. Why in the world the comment had slipped out of my mouth, I had no idea.
I returned to Kindle’s room, moved a small table between us, and set up the board. Kindle placed his hand over mine. “Why would Foster think you are hysterical?”
I stared at Kindle’s hand and tried to remember the last time I’d been touched gently by a man. I pulled my hand away and continued setting up the board.
“I accused Foster of being in on Franklin’s crooked dealings.”
“You, what?”
“I know I was rash and I regret it. But he refused to listen to me. What was I supposed to think?”
“Not that the second in command is grafting from the Army.”
“Have you seen the hospital stores? They are shockingly low. Franklin’s shelves are stocked to the rim with our medicine.”
“Do you know it for a fact?”
“No. But, I suspect it. Franklin is a crook, through and through.”
“I don’t disagree with you, but there’s no proof Foster is crooked. You need to apologize.”
“I know I do, William. It’s infuriating when I’m dismissed because I’m a woman. If a man went to him with the same concerns, he would listen, I’m sure of it.”
“I’ll talk to Foster.”
“No, you will not. I don’t need you to fight my battles, thank you. I’m perfectly capable of groveling for myself.”
“I doubt you have ever groveled.”
“You’d be surprised.” I shook the cup with dice with more force than necessary and threw them on the board. “Oh, did you want to go first?”
He waved his hand slowly across the board. “By all means.”
We played in silence for a few minutes. “I apologize,” I said.
“For?”
“Sometimes I let my passion get the better of me.”
He shook the cup. “You never need to apologize for that with me,” he said, and threw the dice. “Why did you become a doctor, Laura?”
“My mother died when I was young, and though Maureen raised me, I had a fierce independent streak. She couldn’t control me and my father was too distracted by his profession to give my behavior much thought. He was a doctor and from a young age, his profession fascinated me. My earliest memory is sitting on his knee and looking at the diagrams of skeletons in a medical book. I think there were times he went on calls to get away from me and my questions. One day, I asked to go with him, which he flatly refused.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve. I followed him anyway. I was so small it was easy to hide in the shadows.”
“We were both incorrigible twelve-year-olds.”
I chuckled. “I suppose so.”
“Where did your father go?”
“To a brothel. I knocked on the door, thinking it was the house of a patient. I told the woman who answered the door I was there to assist my father. She thought it was comical. My father didn’t.”
“I imagine not.”
“Luckily, he was there in a professional, not personal, manner. But I timed my little rebellion poorly. Or precipitously. It depends on your perspective. My aunt was in town from London. My father’s anger was nothing compared to Aunt Emily’s. She convinced my father to let her take me back to England and promised to get me married off to the first fool who would take me.”
“Were there no takers?”
“None I would take. I have always hated being told what I should and should not do. The more determined Aunt Emily was to marry me off to a simpleminded third son of an earl, the more determined I became to return to the States.”
“Obviously your aunt didn’t get her way. How did you manage it?”
“I’m not sure your good opinion of me could survive that tale.” I chuckled.
“Now you have to tell me.”
“Maybe one day. You look tired. Are you ready to move back to bed?”
“Not yet. I was hoping you could do something for me.”
“What do you need?”
He rubbed his bearded chin. “A shave.”
* * *
I held a bowl of soap in one hand and a brush in the other. “There’s one condition.”
“Yes?”
“You must tell
me more of yourself.”
“What would you like to know?”
I placed the only lamp on the table next to his chair and turned up the wick as far as it would go. The glow of the lamp threw the rest of the room into total darkness, marooning the two of us on an island of muted light. I rubbed the brush in the soap. The silence of night amplified the sound of the brush lathering his face. His eyes were closed, allowing me the opportunity to study him unobserved.
His face was weathered, but not leathery, and unblemished save the fine lines at the corner of his eyes and mouth and his scar. His lips were pink and soft, the lower lip slightly fuller than the upper, with a distinctive line in the middle above the faint cleft in his chin. His dark hair was longer than I remembered from Antietam and his eyebrows would grow into impressive heights as he aged unless a diligent barber kept them in check. I smiled at the vision of unruly white eyebrows framing his clear blue eyes as I applied the soap with small circles down his neck, up his face, and across his scar. “How did you get your scar?” My voice sounded unnaturally loud in the surrounding silence.
“In the war.”
I put the soap and brush down and picked up the razor. “I’ll be shaving your neck with a sharp razor. I can induce you to give me more information.”
“You’re a doctor and are bound by the Hippocratic oath.”
I put the razor down. “I won’t shave you.”
“I’m your patient. You’re supposed to do what I ask.”
“I’m your doctor. Shaving patients is normally done by nurses, if at all.”
He didn’t respond. I took the towel draped over his shoulder to wipe the soap from his face, when he spoke.
“My brother gave me this scar.”
“Lieutenant Kindle’s father?”
“Yes. He fought for the Confederacy, much to my father’s delight.”
I picked up the razor and moved behind him. I lifted his chin and was about to run the blade up his neck when I paused. “I warn you: I’ve never done this before.”
His eyes met mine. “I trust you.”
Nowhere on his face was safe to look. His eyes probed too deeply, his scar inflated my pride, his lips sent my imagination whirling and my stomach tumbling. I focused on the razor, and drew it in a long stroke up his neck. I wiped the blade on the towel and repeated the action. “Your family was divided by the war.”
“We were divided long before, but always with the faint hope of reconciliation. You asked me why I stay in the Army. I believe I owe it a debt. It enabled me to escape my father, his legacy of cruelty.”
He paused. The sound of the razor scraping away soap and whiskers was the only sound in the room. “I wish I’d had the courage to stand up to him. Joining the Army was a cowardly way to get out from under him.”
“Leaving your family took courage.”
His smile was wan. “Courage would have been staying and challenging him. And, my brother.”
“The man who charged after the Kiowa three days ago is anything but a coward. And, he took a bullet and arrow for his trouble.” I wiped the razor clean. “I haven’t thanked you.”
“There is no need.”
“There is.” My throat thickened. “I will always be in your debt.”
He lifted his slinged arm, slightly. “I believe we can call it even.”
I smiled and nodded. I took my time shaving Kindle, partly out of inexperience and a desire to do a good job. The longing to expand the intimacy of our conversation frightened me, but not enough to speed my task.
“Were you and your brother close?”
“No. John thought I was weak.”
I shook my head in disagreement, but didn’t respond. I focused on making long, straight lines through the soap, but knew his eyes studied me. I tried not to blush. “Your scar,” I said, prompting him to continue.
“The family farm was near Antietam.” The razor paused, almost imperceptibly at the name. “Reports were John’s company would be in the battle. They were the rear guard. I knew he would do whatever he could to go home and see his family. Protect them. I knew he wouldn’t like what he found.”
“What did he find?”
“His wife and children gone to Boston to be with my wife and her family.”
The razor paused again. His wife? My stomach dropped. Of course he was married. I’d been stupid for not assuming as much. I blushed at my teasing and familiarity with him, a married man. My mortification was quickly replaced with irritation with him so blatantly instigating the flirtatious relationship. I could not let it pass. “Your wife?”
“Yes. Victoria’s family is in Boston. She lived with them during the war.”
I pressed my lips together and focused on shaving him as quickly as possible and promptly nicked his chin.
I swore under my breath and pressed against the cut with a clean portion of the towel. “I told you I’ve never done this before.” My voice was testy.
For the second time that night, Kindle touched my hand. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “Victoria died in a carriage accident in sixty-four. John’s wife, Emma, was with her.”
I hated myself for my relief. “I apologize,” I said, hoping he understood I apologized for thinking ill of him as well as consoling with him for the loss of his wife. Kindle didn’t remove his hand, nor did I release the pressure against his chin. He rubbed his thumb across the top of my hand. For a long moment, I was mesmerized by how his light touch erased every ache and pain I’d felt over the last week until all I felt was a prickle where his skin touched mine.
Finally, I regained myself and removed the towel. “That should suffice.”
He dropped his hand and continued with his story as if nothing had passed between us, though his voice was rougher, almost hoarse. “Emma was a Northern sympathizer but she supported John, as any wife would do. As the fighting got closer to the farm, she wrote to Victoria and asked for help to move the kids to safety. My wife’s family was happy to take her in.”
Kindle cleared his throat and continued in clearer tones. “The day of the battle, I found John at home, as I knew I would, with my bedridden father. The slaves Emma had left to care for Father left to fight for the Union Army as soon as they moved into the neighborhood. Frankly, I’m surprised they stayed as long as they did. My father was the worst kind of slave owner.
“When John saw Father, wasted from disease and starvation, lying in his own urine and feces, he flew into a rage. This is the result.”
“He blamed you?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to your brother?”
“He died in a prisoner-of-war camp not long after I sent him the letter telling him of Emma’s death. After the war, I retrieved his body and buried him on our family plot. He was in a camp for officers, so there was little trouble finding his grave.”
I nodded. He was lucky. So many families still didn’t know where their fallen sons, husbands, and brothers were buried. Most were buried where they fell—under a tree with a notch marked in it, next to a roadway, or in a mass grave at Andersonville—families had the letters of other soldiers to use to locate their loved ones, with many of those soldiers dead themselves.
“I left for the West the next day,” Kindle said.
“Your father?”
“Is buried next to John.”
His short, clipped answer said volumes. There was more to the story he did not want to tell. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
I wiped the razor on the towel and moved in front of Kindle. Kindle said no more. I focused on my task, determined to ignore his steady gaze and the tension in the air between us.
“I remember you doing that,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“Biting your lip when you concentrate.”
I smiled. “Yes, my aunt used to chastise me for it.”
“When you did needlepoint?”
“Yes,” I laughed. “How did you…?”
&nb
sp; The smile fell from my face. He remembered me from Antietam. I wiped the blade again. “When did you recognize me?”
“Immediately.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I’ve been second-guessing my memory—you were dressed as a man, after all—until you mentioned Aunt Emily. Why haven’t you said anything?”
I turned and placed the razor next to the basin of water, dampened the edge of the towel, and wiped the excess soap from Kindle’s face. He remained silent, waiting.
“Finished.” I held a hand mirror in front of his face.
“Thank you. I’m a new man.”
“I suppose if doctoring doesn’t work out for me, I can always be a barber.” I measured out a dose of laudanum. “Take this. It’s time to return to bed, Captain.”
“I am not drinking that or moving until you answer my question.”
“I didn’t recognize you.”
Kindle scoffed. “You can lie to everyone else, but you cannot lie to me.”
I stared into the opiate-laced whisky I held and was tempted to take it for myself. It wouldn’t do a bit of good, though. Kindle was determined to have an answer.
I dared to look in his eyes. I almost laughed at the belligerence I saw there. I liked him all the more for it. “Men aren’t the only ones who have a past to run from.”
“Whom are you running from?”
I hadn’t seen the stranger from the creek again and, as a result, his shadow had diminished until I believed I had been seeing threats where none existed.
“My own hubris, it would seem.”
He studied me for a moment, nodded, and held out his hand for the whisky. He threw it back in one gulp and handed the tin mug to me.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“It was excruciating.” I helped him stand.
He looked down at me. “I’m beginning to think you’re keeping me drugged and senseless because you don’t enjoy my company.”
“You’ve caught me out. That is precisely my goal.”
He grinned. “Excellent.”
I shook my head and couldn’t help but smile. “How do you know I’m lying?”
“You have a tell.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do. No, I will not reveal it.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
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