Flavorful steam rose and warmed his face. His stomach growled, and his mouth watered. “This looks heavenly. Excuse me.” He bowed his head and sent off a brief prayer of thanks. When he lifted his gaze, Rachel walked through the doorway carrying a second tray.
She stopped halfway across the room and stared at her sister. “I didn’t realize you prepared a tray for Mr. Galloway.”
A triumphant gleam lit Susan’s eyes, and she nodded.
What was this, some sort of rivalry between the sisters?
Rachel moved toward the bed and looked down at the tray in his lap. A slight smile lifted her lips. “Perhaps Mr. Galloway would like a napkin and a knife to spread the butter.” She took those items from her tray and handed them to him.
Susan’s cheeks turned pink, and she tossed her blond curls over her shoulder. “Maybe he doesn’t like butter.”
James chuckled. “Oh, I love butter, especially since I haven’t had any for several months.” He tucked the napkin over his chest and lifted the first spoonful to his mouth. “Mmm, this is delicious. My compliments to the cook.” He glanced back and forth between them, wondering which one had prepared the meal for him.
Rachel smiled. “I’ll be sure to tell Esther you like it.”
“Ah . . . and who is Esther?” He directed the question to Rachel, but Susan answered.
“Oh, she’s our cook and housekeeper. She and her husband, Amos, used to be slaves. But when Grandfather Morton died seven years ago, Father set all our slaves free. Most moved on, but Amos and Esther stayed to work for Father. And Old Samuel stayed to care for the horses, even though his son, Caleb—”
“Susan, I don’t think Mr. Galloway wants to hear about every person who has ever worked for Father.”
James grinned. “Well, I am interested in hearing what motivated him to free his slaves.”
Susan sat on the chair next to the bed. “Oh, Father never believed in slavery. He was born in Philadelphia, and his father was a Quaker. But then he met and married Mother and moved here to Tennessee with her family.” Her blue eyes widened, and she leaned closer. “He and Grandfather used to have terrible arguments about slavery. That was the only time I ever heard Father—”
“Susan!” Rachel held out the tray toward her sister. “Please take this back to the kitchen and relay Mr. Galloway’s thanks to Esther.”
“But I don’t—”
“I know. But it’s time.”
Susan stood and shot a heated glance at her sister. With a swish of her dress, she turned and left the room.
Rachel exhaled and lowered herself onto the chair. “I’m sorry, Mr. Galloway. Susan tends to be outspoken at times.”
“She’s young and spirited. No harm done.” He took another spoonful of soup, savoring the delicious broth. “It sounds like you have quite an interesting family. Susan mentioned your mother . . .” His voice faded as he noted the sudden sadness in Rachel’s eyes.
“She passed away about five years ago.”
He hesitated a moment. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“Your father seems very devoted to you.”
Rachel’s face brightened. “Yes, he is. And we love him dearly. What about your family?” She glanced down at her lap. “Are you . . . married?”
He held back a smile. “No, I’m not. My parents are in England, and my brother as well. But I haven’t seen them since before the war.”
She looked up, compassion in her eyes. “That’s such a long time. You must miss them terribly.”
“Yes . . . I do.” His eyes burned, and he turned away. All those months in prison he had focused on survival and escape. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel how much he missed his family. “Even before I was captured, it was difficult to get letters back and forth to England. I doubt they knew I was a prisoner, which was probably for the best. I hate to worry them.”
“They must be concerned since they haven’t heard from you in so long. I’m sure Father or Amos could take a letter into town and mail it for you. With the Union in control of Nashville, we do get some letters through.”
His spirits lifted. “That’s an excellent idea. And I must contact my editor at Harper’s as well.”
“Perhaps after you finish eating, I could help you with that.”
“I’d be most grateful.” He set his spoon aside and picked up the knife, intending to butter his bread. “I’m not sure if I can do this one-handed.”
“Oh, let me help you.” She rose from her chair, bent over him, and sliced open the square of corn bread.
The scent of roses floated around her. He pulled in a deep breath.
She spread a thick layer of creamy butter over the bread. A soft flush filled her cheeks, and the corners of her mouth tucked in, forming a slight smile. “There you go.”
“Thank you.” He watched her settle on the chair again. “Do you have any other sisters or brothers?”
“I have an older brother, Nathan. He’s twenty-four. This is his room.” She glanced around.
“I hope I haven’t put him out of his bed.”
Rachel smiled. “No. He isn’t living here now. He was attending medical school in Philadelphia when the war started. He joined the Union Army and works in a field hospital near Washington.”
“That must be a difficult job.” He had seen enough injured soldiers to know that was an understatement.
“Yes, he writes to us about it.” A shadow crossed her face. “But we haven’t had a letter in over a month.” Her voice faltered, and her eyes glistened.
He reached over and lightly touched her hand. “He’s probably just busy taking care of his patients. I’m sure you’ll hear from him soon.”
She released a deep breath. “I hope so. That would certainly lift some of Father’s burden.” Rachel slid her hand out from under his and smoothed it over her skirt. “These last few years have been difficult for him. He loved my mother deeply. Her death was a terrible loss, and now with his only son off in the war . . .”
“I imagine you and your sister are a great comfort to him.”
“We try to be, but sometimes I’m afraid we just try his patience.” Dimples creased her cheeks, and her warm hazel eyes glowed.
He laughed. “I’m sure he would say you are his delightful daughters who brighten his days and give him more than enough reason to keep pressing on.”
She laughed now. “Oh, Mr. Galloway.”
“Please, call me James.”
“Then, you must call me Rachel.”
He grinned and nodded, his heart feeling much lighter than it had in months. “All right. Rachel it is.”
Chapter Five
Rachel tucked the needle in her sewing box and shook out the shirt she had altered for James. It was an old one belonging to her brother, but there was still plenty of wear in the material.
She held it up, checking her work, then gave a satisfied nod. The thought of James wearing a shirt she had altered warmed her heart.
For the past six days, she had delivered his meals, tended to his needs, and was pleased to see him regain some strength. Susan also visited him each day. He was polite to her, but he seemed to prefer talking with Rachel.
Her plan to maintain a proper distance had faded away by the second day. James’s warm personality put her at ease. They had discussed everything from his childhood in England to his first job in New York, painting scenery for a theater company. When she asked him about his work as an artist for Harper’s, he shared a few stories, but he usually shifted the focus to her. With a little prompting, she told him about her fondness for English poetry and her love for their three remaining thoroughbred horses.
She smiled at the memory of those long talks. Though she’d only known him for a week, she felt a special attachment forming.
Did he feel the same? Or was he simply lonely?
Hope rose in her heart. Maybe she had finally found someone who would care for her as Andrew had. But doubts nibbled away at her d
reams. Why would a handsome man who had traveled so extensively be attracted to a simple Tennessee girl like her? And what about his sweetheart, Hettie? He hadn’t said anything more about her since that first night when he had called her name, but Rachel didn’t want to risk opening her heart to a man who belonged to someone else.
She sighed and pushed those confusing thoughts away.
Picking up the shirt, she draped it over her arm and headed to James’s room. Father said he was well enough to dress and come down to dinner with the family today. She imagined James sitting across from her at the dining room table, then scolded herself. She had to stop thinking about him all the time. He was their patient, not her beau.
As she approached his room, she saw James sitting at the dressing table with his back to her. Father stood behind him. He looked over his shoulder. “Ah, Rachel. Did you finish the shirt?”
“Here it is.” She stepped forward and glanced in the mirror.
James’s reflection smiled back at her with a clean-shaven face and a neat new haircut.
Rachel swallowed. Oh my. He was good-looking with the beard, but he was ruggedly handsome without it. “I hardly recognize you.”
He laughed. “That’s precisely what I said when your father finished helping me shave.” He ran his hand down the smooth side of his face and along his strong, square jaw. “Feels quite different.”
She broke her gaze and held up the shirt. “Will this do?”
He nodded and sent her a warm smile. “I appreciate your altering it for me. Seems I’m now indebted to you for the clothes as well as your excellent care.”
Her father lifted his hand. “Please, there is no debt. We’ve come to think of you as our friend.” Father glanced at Rachel in the mirror. “Almost like family.”
Rachel looked away, praying Father wouldn’t say anything else. Did he sense her growing attraction to James? Was it that obvious? If Father saw it, did James? Mortified by that thought, she turned away and laid the shirt on a nearby chair.
Amos entered the room carrying a pair of leather saddlebags over his shoulder. He pulled a folded envelope from his pocket. “I have a telegram for Mr. Galloway. And on my way back from town, I found these saddlebags in the bushes down the road from the gate.”
James turned to him. “Why, those are mine.”
Amos handed him the saddlebags. “I was thinkin’ they might be, sir.”
“Thank you.” With his arm still in a sling, James struggled to undo the buckle. “I can’t believe it. I’d given up hope of ever finding them.”
Rachel helped him open the buckle and lift the flap.
James pulled out a thick drawing book. Next came a metal dish, a fork and spoon, a folding knife, a case of drawing pencils, a pocket-size New Testament, and a small revolver. He grinned as he examined each item.
“Is everything there?” Father asked.
“All except a little money.” James’s eyes glistened as he pulled out the final item, a tintype of a beautiful young woman with blond hair and a sweet, pale face. He gazed at it for a moment, then laid it carefully on the dressing table.
Rachel bit her lip. Was that Hettie?
“This means the world to me. Thank you, Amos.”
“Glad I spotted it. Here’s that telegram, sir.”
James thanked him again, then took the envelope and opened it.
“Is it from . . . your family?” Rachel asked. James had only sent two letters, one to his parents in England and one to his editor at Harper’s. Why hadn’t he written to Hettie?
“No, it’s from my editor, George Curtis.”
Rachel’s heart began to pound. Would he recall James to New York or send him back into battle? “What does he say?”
Father lifted his brows and sent her a look that said she was being too forward. Heat flooded her cheeks.
But James didn’t seem to mind her asking. “He says he’s glad to hear I’ve escaped. He wants an article and drawings about my experiences. He’d also like me to rejoin my associate, Thomas Beckley, in Virginia as soon as possible.”
Father frowned. “I don’t believe you’re ready to return to the battlefield. You not only have the wound and beating to recover from, you’ve been deprived of nourishing food for several months.”
A perplexed expression settled over James’s face.
“You need at least another three or four weeks to rest and build up your strength before you travel a great distance like that.”
“Father’s right. You mustn’t go back too soon, or you might become ill.”
James lifted his gaze to meet Rachel’s. “I appreciate your concern.” He glanced at the message again. “But I must go as soon as I’m able.”
Rachel’s fingers curled in and grabbed her skirt. “Surely there are other artists who can cover the battles.”
“There are a few, but I made a commitment to my employer, and I owe it to the men. My drawings bring their story home. I raise morale and persuade people’s opinion. It’s a great responsibility.” He gave a firm nod. “I want to rejoin them as soon as I’m well enough to travel.”
“But you’ve already given your best for more than three years, and you were imprisoned for it. Couldn’t you work from New York? Do you have to put yourself in danger to help the war effort?”
Father cleared his throat. “Rachel, it’s not our place to question James concerning his duty and commitments. I’m sure he’ll take his health into consideration and pray for direction before he makes his decision.”
Fire burned in Rachel’s face. “Excuse me.” She gave a curt nod to her father and James, then fled the room.
She had lost one man she loved in this war, and she could not tolerate the thought of losing another.
A shock wave rippled through her, and her steps stalled in the hallway. Did she love James Galloway? She had only known him for a week. Was that even possible?
It didn’t matter. He didn’t return her feelings. She felt certain of that. If he did, he would never consider leaving her and going back into battle.
****
A cozy fire burned in the fireplace, warming the parlor against a chill in the air. James glanced out the window, marveling at the contrast between the brilliant blue sky and the fiery-orange maple leaves.
He had been with the Thorntons for more than two weeks. The pain in his arm had eased, and he didn’t need to wear his sling all day.
He shifted his focus to Rachel, and gratefulness warmed him from the inside out. Her constant care and companionship had been the key to his recovery. She sat across the room from him now, with a basket of mending at her feet, her attention focused on her sewing. She had stayed behind today to keep him company while Dr. Thornton and Susan went to visit a sick neighbor.
A smile lifted one side of his mouth as he thought of the discoveries he had made about her over the past few days. Though he would’ve never guessed it by looking at her now, she was quite a rough and tumble girl when she was young—riding horses and tramping through the woods—all to the exasperation of her mother and the delight of her father.
But her life had changed dramatically when her mother died. She became the caretaker for her younger sister, the overseer of the household, and the assistant to her father in his medical practice. Quite remarkable roles for such a young woman.
Every day he felt more drawn to her, eager to hear her thoughts on the topics they would discuss. She was not overtly flirtatious like her sister, but he did sense she enjoyed his company. And being with her stirred desires in his heart he had set aside for the past three years.
What was he going to do about it? Covering the war for Harper’s had to be his priority right now. That was his duty, and soon it would take him away from Springside . . . and away from Rachel.
He closed the door on those thoughts. His editor was waiting for his story and drawings from his prison experiences and escape. Recounting the conditions in the prisons and the hardships he and the other captives had endured was a gr
im prospect, but that story needed to be told. Perhaps it would push the decision-makers in Washington to press for peace and the release of all prisoners, both North and South.
Opening his sketchbook, he ran his hand over the dove-gray page. Memories washed over him as he thumbed through his earlier drawings . . . starry nights around the campfire with the men . . . the bugler standing tall, sounding reveille as the sun rose . . . men charging into battle, their shouts echoing across the fields . . . smoke rising from the battlefield as cannon fire thundered in the distance . . . a lone soldier at the edge of camp, weeping over a lost friend.
He pulled in a sharp breath and closed the book, fighting a choking sensation in his throat.
“James?” Concern filled Rachel’s eyes. “Are you all right?”
He blinked and nodded. “Yes. I’m fine.”
She regarded him more closely. “Perhaps you should lie down for a bit. Let me get you a blanket.” She set aside her sewing.
“No. I just need . . .” He shook his head slightly. How could he shift his thoughts away from the battlefield, the prisons, and the friends he had left behind?
He lifted his gaze to Rachel’s face. Her gentle hazel eyes seemed to probe his thoughts. She was certainly a lovely distraction. Perhaps that was his answer. He opened the book once more and turned to a new page. “I’d like to draw your portrait.”
A rosy glow filled her face. “Why would you want to do that?”
His gaze traveled over the soft curves of her cheeks and the dark lashes surrounding her beautiful eyes. “So no matter where I go, I can always remember you.”
His throat tightened, and he looked down, trying to regain control. What was wrong with him? Ever since he’d come to the Thorntons’, emotions he’d hardened for so long seemed to be softening, like a wax candle before a fire.
He cleared his throat. “I must’ve left my pencils upstairs.”
“I’ll get them for you.”
“No. The walk will do me good.” He rose from his chair. “Save that smile. I’ll be right back.”
Her blush deepened, and she nodded.
He strode from the room, doing his best to hide the discomfort each step caused. He had to push himself and build up his strength. He wouldn’t get stronger by resting all day. Soon he would have to return to the battlefield. The Union had to be preserved. Slavery must be stopped. Countless men had given their lives for those ideals. He couldn’t forget their sacrifices.
Waiting for His Return Page 3