A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series

by S. Dionne Moore

  “If he must go, it is for the best,” her father said. The words hit her hard. On one hand, they acknowledged she might have feelings for him, on the other they agreed that he should return to the South.

  “I need to do my duty to the others.”

  Her mother rose and came toward her. Anya’s face showed love and concern, enough to twist Beth’s heart. Her mother’s hands framed her face and her earnest eyes demanded her full attention. “You have done your duty. Rest, daughter. Your father is right. Stay here. Protect Joe. Heal whatever it is that troubles you.”

  There it was again, the assertion that she was troubled.

  “Follow the path of the quilt. God will lead you.”

  She couldn’t grasp what her mother was telling her. It was as if her mother had forgotten their earlier conversation. “I am following God, Mama.”

  “Then let Him heal.”

  26

  Heal. Such a bitter word for her. To heal meant to forget. To forgive. Yet the wound of her youth would never go away. She would always be scarred by the accident and the rejection.

  For the second time in the night, she sat up. She stretched her leg, flexed her foot to work the kinks out of the muscles before she stood. The sun would stretch over the horizon at any moment and she wanted to check on Joe. If her parents thought it best for her to stay, she would do so, but heal?

  She worked the buttons of her pristine blouse, thankful for clothes that weren’t stained by the blood and gore of dying soldiers. She shuddered at the memory.

  Joe slept soundly, Pearl at his side sponging the heat from his skin. Shame washed over her at leaving Joe because of an unexpected kiss and at their exchange of barbs. She touched her lips and nodded at Pearl that she would take over his care.

  “He’s not taken anything, Miss.”

  What little weight he had gained would continue to melt away if fever refused to relinquish its grip. At least he didn’t thrash about, but when she touched his forehead, heat rose from it like a sunburn.

  She continued to sponge his skin, his arms, but every stroke against his hot skin evaporated the water. “Pearl?” She turned to see if the woman had left yet.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Would you send Jim up when you see him?” She took note of Pearl’s wan expression. “And you sleep. I’ll help Mama as much as possible today.”

  “Thank you.”

  She finished working on the wound, sponging away fresh blood from the latest surgery then rewrapping the site. Leaning back, she rolled her head to release tightness and picked up the folded quilt blocks and slipped out the needle. There would certainly be plenty of time for her to add another block. She smoothed the material and joined together the seams trying to block out the play of colors. The draw of the bright central square. God. She’d given God her heart. What more could He want? Let Him heal . . . Heal what?

  Her needle dipped into the seam and she began, the rhythm soothing. She leaned toward the basin of cool water. Dabs of the cloth against his skin seemed to do so little. What if he died? Infection was setting in. The thought stabbed fear, yet it was the only reason for the fever to rage so high. She trusted her mother’s care, just as she trusted Gerta’s.

  Lord . . . ?

  A lone tear rolled down her cheek and perched on the edge of her lip. She tasted its salt as she raised the cloth and stroked down Joe’s arm to the tips of his fingers. She’d clung to his presence during the battle. He had freely offered her the comfort of his presence. Not drawing back even though he knew she was crippled. Then why was he leaving? His brother was dead. What did the details of his death matter now? It must be Meredith . . . Despite his words he must care for her.

  She ran the cloth over each of the fingers on his right hand, bending each one as she worked. She lifted his forearm and bent it toward his upper arm. She had no idea if it helped or not, but it seemed the right thing to do. When she lifted her eyes, he was watching her. She started. Warmth crept up her neck and into her cheeks.

  “I thought it might help.”

  His eyes were glazed with the heat. He closed them and she turned her attention to sponging his face.

  A sigh slipped from him when the cool cloth touched his neck. His eyes fluttered open. She labored over the other side of his face, his left arm, all the while feeling his gaze on her. She wondered what he was thinking, feeling. If his shoulder hurt . . . if he remembered their kiss . . .

  She dipped water into a mug for him and lifted his head for him to drink. He sipped and turned his head away.

  “You have to take more, Joe.”

  The green of his eyes was blurred by the fever. She put her hand against his cheek, his forehead, torturing herself with the possibility that the fever could take him.

  His lips moved.

  “Sh.” She pressed her finger to his mouth.

  His eyes closed and she turned her head away, grateful that he would not witness her shattering. She had already cried so much, but it never seemed enough, it never seemed to touch the spot in her heart. She would forever be grateful to Joe for the kiss. If nothing else, she would have that of him to savor.

  “Beth . . .”

  She ran her sleeve across her eyes and pasted on a smile.

  “Don’t cry.”

  “It’s what we women do best.”

  He licked his lips and she waved the cup of water at him. “Drink as much as you can,” she admonished as she lifted his head and held the cup to his lips. It wasn’t much but she had no choice but to be satisfied that it was something.

  “Read.”

  She sat down and picked up the Bible, the pages opened to Hebrews, chapter 6. The first verse left her lips, uncomprehending of the message. She read it again, the mention of dead works and faith toward God pounding her conscience. Clearing her throat, she stole a glance at Joe. His eyes were closed. She continued, the sharp prick stabbing harder as she read verses four, then five, and finally six.

  She, the most humbled person, by a cruelty that had left her maimed for life. Who could be more humbled by such a senseless act?

  Shutting the Bible, she set it aside. Joe never stirred. She picked up the quilt blocks and sunk her needle through the seam she’d started, counting the stitches to amuse herself. Humming broken verses of hymns, even daring a verse of “Dixie.” Anything to keep her mind occupied.

  His name was repeated, over and over, until his muscles ached from running, stopping, turning. He couldn’t find the person who called to him. It was a soft voice. Feminine. His sister, but not his sister. His mother . . .

  He lifted his head to catch the soft sound. She was there. Waiting for him. Clutching something in her hands. The quilt. Beth . . .

  It was important. The quilt. The message. She was hurting, and even as he watched, her smile faded and she leaned to touch her leg, her foot. And then, she was gone and he was strangling against the blackness.

  His body convulsed and his eyes snapped open. His breathing was heavy. A shadow rose up from beside him and he tensed, unsure why his arms felt so heavy, his legs so weak.

  “Bad nightmare. It’s a good thing you woke up. I thought you might start yelling all over again.”

  Little by little, he relaxed, chilled by the cool air against his skin and the petite presence of the black woman. Pearl, he remembered. He’d scared her earlier and needed to apologize. She knew something about Ben. Later. He would ask her about it again later.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up. That fever be draining you of everything.”

  He blinked dumbly at the chair Pearl had been sitting in, wanting to see Beth there. Hear her voice as he had in the dream. Why had she disappeared so suddenly? Panic stuttered the beat of his heart even as he felt the dampness of his own sweat in which he lay. Was Beth dead too?

  “Beth.”

  Pearl wrung the cloth between her capable hands and began patting down his face. “She sleeping.”

  She was safe. Asleep. Joe closed his eyes, absorbing the coo
lness of the cloth.

  “If’n you’re feeling strong enough, I’ll shave you.”

  He wanted to protest, but already she had the brush, whipping it around, dabbing at his face.

  “You’ll feel better with these whiskers off.”

  Obediently, he lifted his chin as she raked the straight edge down his throat. He angled his face toward her, then away, according to the place she was shaving. She dabbed at his face with a warm towel, followed by the cool water.

  “Much better.”

  Despite the weakness, he did feel better for the shaving.

  “We’ll change those sheets now. Been too long already, but you having that fever made us too worried to do much more than keep your skin cool and make you drink.”

  His fever had broke? He still felt hot. “How long?”

  “Fever been raging for about four days. You been in and out the whole time. Plumb wore Miss Beth down to a nub, which is why I sent her off to bed.”

  She worked as she spoke, helping him roll to one side, then the other as she stripped the linen from the bed and put down a clean sheet. She helped him into a clean pair of long underwear that he’d never seen before but couldn’t find the strength to question. Every movement required more than he had to give. He released a grateful sigh when Pearl finally pulled the light blanket back up to his chest and bid him to sleep, her hand to his head.

  “Think the worst is over. You sleep. Miss Beth should be here when you wake.”

  He didn’t want to sleep but the little bit of effort required of him yanked him down into the arms of sleep. He had to tell Pearl something, but both the words and the strength to speak eluded him and the next thing he saw was Beth’s face, bloodied and twisted in pain.

  27

  I’m going down to help.” Jim’s long stride covered the distance between the window and the chair. Joe’s weakened legs struggled to support his weight.

  The big man dumped him onto the chair and was out the door before Joe could say or do anything more. A wagon had pulled into the driveway just as the big man had gotten him up. Two steps to the window and already he was feeling useless. He’d broken into a sweat just standing at the window, hanging on to the sill for support. Beth stopped the wagon in front of the house and gathered her skirts to climb down, but her foot caught and she sprawled onto the drive. He’d glimpsed blood.

  From the chair where Jim had left him he could no longer see her. He pushed to the edge of the chair, feeling the beads of sweat that gathered on his upper lip. Jim’s voice boomed from outside. Beth’s reply soft. He relaxed. At least she was able to talk. Not hysterical and out of sorts by every little thing like Meredith. It was one more reason to love her.

  Love . . .

  He needed her, wanted to make sure she wasn’t hurt, and had to wait until Jim could return. Joe chafed at his weakness, at the crutch that was across the room, at the dizziness that had him holding his head.

  Pearl glided into the room. “Miss Beth had a fall. Jim sent me to—”

  “She’s bleeding.”

  “You saw?”

  “From the window. Is she hurt?”

  “Shaken.” She grabbed the crutch from the corner and brought it to him. “Jim says you can use this to get yourself up. I’ll help support your weight.”

  He did his best to lean more on the crutch than on Pearl. He took tiny steps, but each one required every ounce of concentration.

  “Don’t know what Jim is thinking, having you up so soon.”

  Joe inhaled deeply. His head throbbed from the effort, his muscles burned from disuse. She placed the cool cloth over his forehead. It felt so good he wanted to weep. That the woman could show him such kindness when he had been so . . . “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

  There was no response and he cracked an eye open. Pearl stood there, slack-jawed.

  “Never had no white man ever tell me he was sorry.”

  “It’s about time then, don’t you think?”

  Joe could stand it no longer. When Jim next entered the room, he demanded that the man take him to Beth.

  “She still shook up from hitting her head.”

  But it had been a full day since her fall and he wanted to see for himself. To talk to her. “I miss her.”

  Jim’s face split into a grin as broad as his shoulders. “Then we’ll get you up.” He handed over the crutch. “You lean on this and me.”

  The steps were tricky. Jim held tight to his good arm and he leaned his bad side against the wall.

  Pearl appeared at the bottom of the staircase. “She right through here.”

  At the landing, he could see the whirl of activity. Anya spoke with three other women as they worked. She met his gaze and nodded, slipping a worried glance at the women. He took the warning and shuffled through to the parlor where Pearl motioned for him. His first sight of Beth sent his heart into a panicked gallop. She was pale and still. He shot forward, his feet moving as fast as he dared. Jim lunged to keep up.

  “You best wake up and see this man,” Jim’s voice boomed.

  Beth’s eyes opened and she smiled into Joe’s face as he lowered himself to the chair Pearl held for him.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  Her expression tightened. “I fell.”

  “I saw.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and averted her face.

  He leaned forward trying to understand her reaction. “I needed to make sure you were well.” He touched her arm. “Bethie?”

  She turned back to him, green eyes brimming with tears, cheeks flushed. “You’re better. You’re leaving.”

  He stilled, aware that Pearl and Jim both had retreated. “I’m stronger, yes, but . . .”

  Her lips pressed together and a sob wracked her body. He slid his fingers down her arm, clasped her hand in his. “Beth, please . . . Are you in pain? Is your leg hurting?”

  Another sob and still she would not look at him.

  “Bethie.”

  “I wanted to be graceful and beautiful. Like Meredith.”

  He reached out to turn her face toward him. “Am I graceful and beautiful with my withered arm?”

  “But . . . I fell.”

  Light began to dawn. “Do you fall a lot?”

  An angry rush of red surged into her cheeks. She sniffed again. This meant more to her than he suspected. Her injury. The show of her embarrassment.

  “I wanted to make sure you were well. Jim and I were standing at the window and I saw the blood.”

  “A cut.” Her fingers brushed the spot where an abrasion targeted the place.

  “My sister Sue fell a lot. She was always tripping over something.”

  Still, she would not look at him.

  “Please leave me alone.”

  Jim came forward, and Joe wondered how much of the conversation the man had heard. “She is all right, isn’t she?” he asked the big man as they retraced the steps toward the stairway.

  “There is great heartache in Miss Beth. Her grandmother saw it, her parents saw it . . .”

  28

  Joe lay awake a good portion of the night, less because of the discomfort of the new bandage, more because he knew how troubled Beth was. Jim had helped him bathe before the bandage had been changed and he felt like a new man. Clean clothes, clean-shaven jaw, but the loose fit of the clothes showed him exactly how much work he had ahead of him to get better. Beth’s mother had shown him the sizable chunk they’d removed from his shoulder, suspecting it was the culprit behind the wound’s tendency to fester and the ebb and flow of his fevers.

  Despite the strength he felt from the news and the pronouncement that his fever was much lower, and the exhaustion over the flurry of activity from his ablutions, he couldn’t sleep. He’d opened his mouth several times to ask Anya about her daughter’s limp, but he couldn’t draw the courage to do so. Best for it to come from Beth herself.

  When the bright morning light spilled onto the bed and warmed his face, Beth appeared. She appro
ached him and touched his forehead and cheeks. “Mother said she thought the fever broke.”

  He caught her hand before she could withdraw. “God has answered my prayers.”

  Her face flushed and she tried to tug her hand fingers free from his grasp. “That’s good news.”

  “I want to go for a walk.”

  “I’ll get Jim.”

  “I want to go with you.” He paused, not knowing how much strength he would have or how much distance he would be able to go before being forced to return to bed. But if he never tried, his strength would be reluctant to return, and he wanted to heal. For her. He stroked his thumb over the smooth back of her hand. “Tell me what has upset you.” He’d debated the question most of the night. Her reluctance to talk of her limp, her embarrassment, all served to tell him something, and he thought he might know the problem. “Do you think it matters to me that you aren’t graceful?”

  Her lip quivered, then her jaw clenched. “It mattered to Riley.”

  His heart ached at the torn whisper of emotion in her voice. He kept his voice low. “Have you considered my arm? I’ll never be the same. A very wise woman once told me that I had much to offer—love, life . . . Do you think she was wrong?”

  The moment she raised her gaze to his, he knew she felt the gentle nudge of his words. “It’s not the same.”

  “You’re right. It’s not. But it has left us both less than perfect in the eyes of others. Meredith wouldn’t want me now and I’m glad of it. She was shallow and silly and I was a fool to think she wanted me for anything more than to rile her father.”

  Her eyes flew to his, her mouth opening, then closing.

  His smile came slow, sure. “I think it shows a greater depth when someone can look beyond a body’s weakness and see the beauty within, don’t you, Bethie?”

  She knew the answer. Wanted to believe that what he said was true. But Meredith aside, he was still leaving. He’d said so himself. How could she believe all that he said when words came easy but actions revealed those deeper recesses of the heart.