A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series

by S. Dionne Moore

  Huddled on Gerta’s bed, she was joined by Joe. He didn’t touch her, didn’t say a word, but he sat there with his Bible until her vision of him hazed over and she closed her eyes. Sometime in the night she jerked awake. I love you, Beth. Gerta’s voice went with her from sleep to wakefulness. If only she’d been able to say those words in response to her grandmother’s affectionate words. She should have capped her anger more quickly.

  She turned her head and wondered why her leg hurt so much when she put weight on it. She leaned to rub her knee and ankle before wandering the few steps to where Jim and Joe slept. She wondered if the Confederates still marched west and strained for sounds of the retreat. Joe, too, might leave. Joe’s Bible lay open beside him and, caught beneath his leg, the quilt blocks. Harbingers of God’s love. God was her hope, and for the first time in a long time, she knew she needed more than her anger. If Leo’s accident was to prove what she was made of, God must have been sadly disappointed to discover her shallowness. She blinked and limped back to the cot Gerta had used. What would she do without her grandmother? And she knew the answer to that lay in their last conversation. Gerta’s assertion that God wasn’t just her hope for the past, but her future. That by holding on to the past she was rejecting that hope. Gerta had tried to tell her in words. Her mother was trying to show that to her through the quilt pattern. That golden square that beckoned her.

  Joe’s arm was maimed. How many other soldiers had she seen who had suffered much worse wounds, even died, with God’s name on their lips? Begging for a merciful God to take them. And in many cases He would, but some He would not.

  Beth buried her face in her hands. They didn’t matter though. She knew that deep down. It wasn’t a matter of God’s intentions toward the sick and dying around her, it was a matter of her heart and her salvation. In the end, she could blame no one but herself because it was her choice what to do with trouble when it spun her world out of control. She’d heard men blame God. Point their finger at the trouble of others and discount God’s power because of what they saw as God’s failure.

  It didn’t matter. God didn’t need her opinion to run the world, He just needed her to do her part. She bit her lower lip and tried to stifle the sob but it leaked out as God’s name whispered from her lips on a rush of air and a flood of salt.

  21

  Joe woke to an eerie quiet that seemed loud in his ears. It seemed strange when he knew a stream of soldiers like him was marching in a long line through Sharpsburg toward the Potomac and the safety of friendly soil. He was being left behind. The reality was he needed to gather his haversack, slip out into the moonless night and rejoin his regiment.

  But Beth had not cried.

  Not one tear.

  Rage combed the edges of her composure, and while he understood the anger over the death of a loved one, he didn’t understand her inability to grieve. It was as if she was frozen inside. He’d seen glimpses of a woman he wanted to know better, but the time and place, his reasons for being with her, were all wrong and he knew it.

  He captured one of the crutches Jim had finished for him and pulled to his feet. He wobbled and closed his eyes. He could stay. He knew of men who deserted, sick of the fighting and infrequent rations. Every man he’d talked to dreamed of home as he had known it before the war. Most of his friends joined when they saw those same homes destroyed by the Yanks or heard of a brother or father killed. There was no more strength in him. Stumping down the dirt road and into Sharpsburg would strain the limits of his ability.

  His friends would wonder where he’d gotten to. They would want to know about Ben and maybe be able to shed light on the subject. Excuses crumbled beneath the call of duty. Joe retrieved his haversack and lifted it across his shoulder, shifted the crutch to his good arm and took his first, quiet step toward the door. He wanted to say good-bye. To Jim. To Beth. But hesitation was a snag to his determination and he kept his eyes straight forward. At least the old pair of boots would protect his feet, and he, for the moment, would be free from the crawl and bite of body lice.

  Union soldiers would pour into Sharpsburg and he would be taken prisoner. He released a pent-up sigh and stroked his hand down the length of his stubbled jaw. He hesitated at the door, turning to see through the dark to the place where Beth would be sleeping. Dimness swallowed her outline. He wanted to see her one more time. Telling her good-bye would ease his guilt for leaving her and his inability to protect her from the ravages of war that she’d been made to endure. Perhaps when the war was over he would come back. Listen for rumors in town and ask questions to make sure she had chased her demons and recaptured her dreams.

  “Beth?” he whispered, almost afraid she would answer, in hopes she would sleep and he would be free to leave without further entanglement. Where once she had been strong for him, helped him, he was now stronger and she the weaker. How could he leave her like this? Jim would care for her and make sure she made it back to her parents. The man was faithful and big-hearted. Beth would need someone.

  He heard a scraping sound and turned toward the door. Nothing more broke through the stillness, and the tension melted from his shoulders. He knelt beside Beth’s still form, aware of nothing more than her breathing and the pale skin of her cheek in the velvet contrast of night.

  Gratitude for all she had sacrificed to care for him, for all the others, rose, not to be forgotten or ignored. Her sacrifice was like those made by countless others and he wondered why he felt such allegiance to her. Because he had come to know her. She had shared with him on the horrible journey of his recovery. The night scares. She had sought to soothe him as he had needed to be comforted. And now, in her moment of need, he was leaving?

  A hand came down heavy on his shoulder. He gasped and twisted as he rose. A flood of strength bunched his muscles and he cocked his left arm to throw a punch. His wrist was caught in a vise grip.

  “No.”

  “What are you trying to do?” He could barely see Jim’s form, his skin tone molding him as one with the darkness. His eyes flashed.

  “The Yanks will be on us by morning, if not sooner.”

  “I need to go.”

  Jim took a step toward Beth, his words a whisper floating back over his shoulder. “She has lost so much.”

  He knew what loss was. The wrecking of a land and a way of life by a war that individuals fought more because of the damage they saw to their houses, lands, and loved ones, more than for any politician’s ideals.

  Jim passed him and ducked through the doorway. Joe followed, closing the door behind him and leaning against it for support.

  “If we stay and they capture you . . .”

  “I can’t desert.” He felt the weight of what the man was asking him to do. Afraid to go, reluctant to stay. Returning was his only hope to make sense of what had happened to Ben. His injury would grant him a discharge and he could search for answers from there.

  “Her or the war?”

  It took him a minute to remember what he’d said before Jim’s question. The truth was he couldn’t desert her either. She had helped him when he needed it most. Sacrificed for him. And he loved her . . .

  “You are too weak to march.”

  “They’d probably shove me in the back of a medical wagon.” And he would bump along, miserable, waiting for a surgeon to tell him it was better for his arm to come off completely. He clenched his right hand, feeling the tendons contract, the muscles move. The numbness had worn off, or maybe it was just a trick of his mind.

  “You must work your arm and shoulder in order for it to gain strength.”

  Lost among thousands of wounded vying for the attention of a doctor or assistant, nurse or volunteer. He would be left to languish as his body continued to knit and heal. Deprived of the soft attention and kindness of Beth . . .

  “Help me get her to safety and we’ll get you back across the Potomac.”

  Joe stared hard at the black man. Jim would not beg, and he wanted to care for Beth as she’d care
d for him.

  The night sounds rolled through his mind, tempting, luring, prodding him to do what was right and honorable. And even as he stood there, Beth’s rare smile dangled in his mind like meat to a starving dog.

  “We do not have time to waste.”

  He met Jim’s gaze, saw the white of his eyes flash as the man’s gaze drifted toward Sharpsburg and the muted sounds of the retreating Rebs. “Then we’d better hurry.”

  “I can walk,” Beth insisted.

  “Let Jim carry you. You were limping pretty bad,” Joe urged. “We’ll make better time.”

  “You can barely walk yourself.”

  It was true, but the challenge made him straighten and gulp the air his starved lungs demanded while ignoring the sear of pain radiating from his shoulder, through his back and into his neck. He felt Jim’s eyes on him and knew the man also had concerns. If anyone slowed them down it would be him. Part of Joe wondered why the black man had thought it a good idea for him to go with them. He should have thought it through more. He had been manipulated and he knew it. Now. For all Jim’s words about him not being able to handle the march, the black man would have known he also wouldn’t have been able to traverse the countryside in his weakened state.

  “It’s not far now,” Jim assured. “You and Miss Beth can ride.”

  He tilted his head to study the man. Jim had something planned. Must have been the fruits of all the black man’s ventures out by himself in the last two days.

  Joe forced himself to pick up his pace, following the big black man, aware of the way Beth’s head bobbed with Jim’s every step. She glanced at him over Jim’s shoulder and Joe squeezed out a smile.

  “Jim. Stop.”

  The black man whirled with her. She twisted and he finally let her down. Beth came to him, and he wondered if his expression had given away the fire shooting from his shoulder that made it so hard for him to focus enough to place one foot in front of the other.

  “He can’t go farther.” Her hands framed his face. “You’re burning up again.”

  He felt miserable, her hands cool. He didn’t want her to ever let go. His arm went around her waist and drew her close. He just needed someone to lean on. She gasped and he was aware of the impropriety of his action but couldn’t care.

  “Jim?”

  The big man took a step closer and crouched as if to lift him. Joe put out a hand, determined to stop the man’s action. “I’ll be fine.”

  It was as if Jim didn’t hear or the words had never made it past his mind. He was lifted, flung over Jim’s shoulder, the blood rushing to his head.

  “Someone’s coming,” Jim’s voice held urgency. “Straight ahead.”

  They bumped along, Jim’s steps knifing pain into his shoulder, up his neck, into his head. It was no time to demand to be let down. No time to be weak. He hated it. Needed to be able to walk. Protect Beth and Jim from whatever threat dogged their heels. Instead he felt vague and weak. He missed Beth’s cool hands. The solidity of a floor beneath him.

  “Jim?” There was a note of surprise in Beth’s voice.

  “Hurry,” Jim urged.

  He thought he heard the pound of footsteps, the crush of twigs and leaves. They’d stuck to the woods at Jim’s urging. The black man’s pace picked up until Joe’s pain compounded and squeezed his consciousness to a fine point. Then Jim stopped. He felt himself falling, lifted, lowered to the hard surface of a wagon bed and covered with something. He squinted through the darkness. Heard whispers and didn’t recognize a new voice.

  Jim’s face loomed over him. “Stay quiet and still, Mister Joe. You’ll be fine.”

  He tried to lift his hand, to sit up. Beth’s voice whispered against his ear. “Please, Joe. Keep still.”

  He did then. Rested. With each beat of his heart, the pain lessened and his head cleared. He could see nothing and knew he was in a confined space. He listened hard. Heard a horse’s low snuffle.

  “They went that way,” It was the new voice. “Potomac not far from here. Robbed us of the bread we’d taken in to Sharpsburg for the boys. Thought they was gonna take our horse but they must have heard you coming and skedaddled.”

  “Strange time for you to be traveling.” This voice was formal, refined.

  “There’s another wagon behind us. Coming down from Mercersville with apples and corn, flour, some cider. The women got some quilts together, too.”

  “What about you?”

  “This here is my brother. This here is the woman he works for. They’s from Sharpsburg. Been nursing the wounded since the battle up on the mountain.”

  “She just lost her grandmother.” Jim’s voice.

  He heard a muffled weeping and knew it was Beth. Whether she was acting or not, her timing was impeccable.

  The wagon lurched, then began a soft rocking. They were on the road. He closed his eyes and tried to keep still. The heat became unbearable and he longed for the feel of night air against his cheeks.

  22

  Jim slid Joe from his confines in what seemed like mere minutes later. Night had passed into predawn, the silver light in the east stretching across the sky. Even that dim light made him blink. His head felt cottony. It was hard to think. His whole body ached and he wanted nothing more than to sleep.

  “Joe?”

  He tried a smile and failed.

  “He’s burning up. Carry him inside, Jim. Mama will tell you where to put him.”

  So he was at the home of Beth’s parents. It made sense though—Beth’s loss, the overwhelming circumstances present in Sharpsburg, and Gerta’s death. She would be safe here, as would he. The knot of fear in his belly dissolved and he relaxed as hands and voices became muffled sounds. He was sinking into oblivion and he didn’t care.

  He woke to soft fingers and the bright light of day. He expected Beth, but saw a version of her twenty-five years into the future.

  The woman twisted a cloth and lay it along his forehead. “You must drink as much as possible and eat.” She paused and smiled. “I am Anya Bumgartner.”

  Gray threaded the woman’s dark hair. Her soft smile and quiet voice soothed him. She hadn’t asked one question of him and he wondered if Beth had told her his true identity or if they would be forced to lie. Looking into the woman’s face, he thought it might be best to stick with the truth. She seemed a no-nonsense type woman. Or maybe every mother appeared that way. It brought a rush of warmth to his chest. His mother had been able to read him and his brother every time a lie crossed their lips, resulting in a frown that was at once amused and disappointed. He’d hated that smile because it always poked the lie deeper into his conscience.

  “I’m Joe.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Already she didn’t trust him, though her smile didn’t falter. He swallowed. “Where is Beth? Jim?”

  “Jim is helping load supplies. Beth is sleeping.”

  He wanted to ask how she felt about having a Rebel soldier to take care of. Did it disgust her? If her son fought for the Union, surely her feelings would be torn by his presence.

  “I should help him.”

  She tilted her head. “Rest. Get well. Then Jim will help you cross the Potomac.”

  So she did know.

  “I-I’m sorry,” he muttered, not understanding his compulsion to apologize.

  Her gaze swept over his face, his hair, his arms and chest. “Jim is right. You would not have made the march. It was best for you to stay behind.”

  He turned his face away. “He should have left me in Sharpsburg.”

  “They care for you.”

  He turned his head, and felt the softness of a pillow cradling his head and neck, nuzzling his cheek. The mattress on which he lay was soft, the linens clean and sun-fresh. A wave of despair swept him and he longed for home again, more grieved at the knowledge that the home would be empty. His chest was bare and a fresh bandage had been applied. He plucked at the linen, taut against his skin and considered her words. “I wanted to go ba
ck.”

  “Jim needed you to see Beth to safety. I am grateful for your choice.”

  He would not argue, though her gratefulness seemed ludicrous in light of the fact he had to be carried most of the way, then hidden the rest of the journey.

  “Jim says you are a man of honor. He did not want you to become a prisoner.” She shuddered, a light shaking of her shoulders that nevertheless did much to bear out her impression of the prison he most certainly would have been sent to. No doubt she feared not just for him, but for the likelihood of her own son being taken prisoner.

  A whisper of movement caught his attention and drew his gaze to Beth. She’d washed her face, pink from the scrubbing, damp tendrils of hair swept back into a neat knot that allowed some of the longer pieces to brush her shoulders.

  “Good morning,” she said as she limped forward. He saw her fresh dress and the blocks of the quilt in her hand. She spread the blocks on the bed and for a moment, mother and daughter were lost in some unspoken conversation that put a satisfied gleam in Anya’s eyes.

  “All I could think of was hope,” she addressed her mother.

  “You see hope now where you saw none before.”

  Joe didn’t know what to make of the conversation and was rescued when Anya rose and nodded toward him. “Take care of Joe while I get breakfast.”

  “I can help,” Beth was quick to reply.

  “Rest, Bethie.” Anya’s hand came down on her shoulder. “Joe needs you.”

  Beth traced the uneven stitches of the quilt blocks she’d joined together over the last few days. Such a whirlwind of events that all led up to losing Gerta. Everything had felt so black and dull just hours before, yet, today, so far from the horrors of war, snug in the safety of the familiar, she felt like the bright spot on the quilt might not be so far away any more. God was as close as her prayers.

  And then there was Joe. She raised her gaze to his and felt the weight of her mother’s parting words; Joe needs you. His fever had risen. He remained weak, but under the watchful gaze of his green eyes, something else demanded attention. He was telling her something. The press of his hand on hers and the tangle of their fingers.