“Thank you,” she said, taking the plate and sitting down on the chair to eat.
She savored the first bite of biscuit.
“Good morning,” a voice she had come to dread hearing called from behind her. The biscuit turned to sawdust in her mouth. Colonel Bonaire went up and sat in the other chair on the porch to watch while she ate.
Washing the biscuit down with bitter coffee, she merely nodded in his direction. “Jeremiah,” she said, sweetly, “Will you get my Grandpa a plate of food so he can join me?”
Jeremiah agreed and hurried off to get another plate.
“I’m glad we have these few minutes alone,” Colonel Bonaire pointed out.
“I assure you that was not my intent.”
Though she didn’t turn to look at him, she felt his smile. “Of course not,” he said.
Grandpa came out on the porch and stood at the railing.
“Jeremiah is bringing you a breakfast,” she said.
“That’s fine,” Grandpa said. “I’m looking forward to it. Are you joining us, Colonel Bonaire?”
“He was just leaving,” Claire jumped in before the other man could answer.
His eyes bore into hers a moment too long; however, he turned without a word and marched back toward the tents. Even a rogue, she decided, wouldn’t show bad manners in the presence of his host.
Seconds later, Grandpa took his plate from Jeremiah and sat in the chair vacated by Colonel Bonaire.
“I’m guessing you had a good reason,” he said simply.
She nodded. “I did.”
“Very well.”
Claire chewed her biscuit and looked to the road, empty of travelers for the moment. How did one tell one’s grandfather that she didn’t enjoy being leered at by the man in charge of the infirmary that had become their home? Swallowing some now lukewarm coffee, she decided that one didn’t. She didn’t want what would no doubt be a confrontation.
“Have you seen Romeo?” she asked.
“He was here last night, ate his supper, and went back to the woods.”
“Poor Romeo. He doesn’t know what to make of all this.”
“Neither do I, Claire. Neither do I.”
They fell into a routine – Claire, Grandpa, and Jeremiah. They were up early, tending sickness and wounds, then fell into bed late at night. Exhausted. The better part of a week wore on since Jeffrey had walked away from her. A week since he had held her hand in his and touched his lips to hers.
And promised to return.
She replayed the moment over a thousand times in her mind. The images fueled her—kept her moving during the long days. He was the first thing she thought of when she woke each morning and the last thing she thought of when she drifted into sleep at night.
She waited for him as she had promised. The wait seemed interminable. Some moments she didn’t know if she could bear to be away from him any longer. Other moments, it seemed only a flicker of seconds since he had stood in front of her. Holding her tightly against him as he said goodbye. Placing his lips against her hair in a fond farewell kiss.
Claire blinked and brought herself out of her fantasy. Sometimes her thoughts wandered into what could have been. She sighed. Will I ever see him again?
She cleansed the wound on a soldier’s thigh, no longer cringing or even blushing at the task. She had seen so many men die in the past week. Her optimism for seeing Jeffrey again waned.
Where were the Yankee wounded?
“Fresh wounded coming in.”
Claire’s heart lurched at the now familiar words. More wounded soldiers. If this continued, there would be no one left to defend the South. Part of her rejoiced at the idea. The war would be over.
This time the soldiers were brought in on a wagon. Tossed together like firewood.
As they were unloaded, she made sure there was plenty of hot water and clean cloths.
“Miss Claire,” Jeremiah said, looking at her quizzically.
She didn’t answer.
“Perhaps you should rest before getting started.”
They both knew by now that the arrival of new injured was the hardest part. Many of them would be critical.
Claire swallowed and tamped down the trepidation she experienced in the pit of her stomach at the sight of the men being dragged off the wagon and tossed unceremoniously onto the ground.
“No,” she whispered. “I’m fine.”
She began scanning the smudged faces of the soldiers lined up next to the wagon. Most of them would feel better if only they could just have a bath. Of course, that wasn’t an option. Nonetheless, she smiled at the thought of a hundred men waiting their turn for a hot bath.
The last man pulled from the wagon was unconscious. His face and uniform were coated in dried mud. And yet…
“Jeremiah,” she called, knowing he would be nearby. “Get me a warm cloth.”
Less than a minute later, Jeremiah handed her the requested cloth. She knelt next to the man and began carefully washing his face.
He opened his eyes and she gasped.
“Claire,” he murmured.
Her heart flipped. Jeffrey!
Before she could catch her breath and respond, he closed his eyes and lost consciousness again.
“We have to get this man inside,” she said.
Her request was met with dubious glances among the two orderlies nearby.
Jeremiah, however, went to her side, his dedication unflagging. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get him inside.”
Without giving herself time to think or even to question herself, she had Jeffrey taken to her bed and she began to check for wounds. He was riddled with bullets. The first one in his arm. There was also one in his shoulder and one in his lower thigh. The one that concerned her the most, though, was the bullet at the side of his abdomen.
How had he survived this? She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he had been brought back to her.
She sent for more bandages and more cloths. She cleaned his wounds, put whiskey on them, and waited.
“Miss Claire,” Jeremiah said at one point, near mid-day, “the men are wondering when you’ll come back to tend them.”
“I don’t know,” Claire said, keeping her back to him. “I won’t leave him.”
He grumbled and spoke to someone else. Then all was quiet in the house.
She curled up in the chair next to the bed and stayed with Jeffrey throughout the afternoon. Someone, perhaps Jeremiah, brought her food, which she nibbled on, then set aside.
She watched Jeffrey, the rise and fall of his chest. The occasional twitch of his fingers. A panic clenched at her heart. How had she fallen so quickly for this man? He had to recover.
As the darkness settled over the house, Grandpa stood at the door and watched her. She looked at him and shrugged. He disappeared and came back a few minutes later with a candle which he placed on the table next to the bed.
“Thank you,” she whispered. He merely put a hand on her shoulder as he left, closing the door behind him.
Colonel Bonaire came inside and went into his room. Thank goodness he hadn’t approached her today. She wouldn’t have been able to keep the civility on her tongue.
After nodding off, her head jerking up from her shoulder, she hesitated, then crawled into the bed and stretched out next to Jeffrey. He lay beneath the blanket and she on top of it. She had lain closer to him under the house, after all.
Finding his hand, she twined her fingers with his, then at last, fell asleep.
Jeffrey Couvion stirred in a fitful slumber, the normal, soothing sounds of the Yankee camp bringing him to the brink of wakefulness. A blacksmith’s hammer echoed off metal. The smell of the evening venison roasting on the fire rounded out a momentary illusion of the safety and contentment of home.
With the feel of the coarse woolen blanket beneath him and the heat of the afternoon sun against his bare back, Jeffrey sank deeper into the shadows of sleep and had that dream again.
Back
in battle, he aimed his pistol, firing and reloading, over and over again. The enemy approached; a sea of never-ending gray. Gunpowder stung his nose and blackened his skin. The faceless enemy appeared one after another. Their cries of agony were lost in the melee as they fell one atop the other.
Jeffrey ceased to see and to feel, his mind blank. Then a slight figure in gray caught his attention. Like him, the soldier had streaks of black across his face and knelt, methodically loading his pistol. Seconds later, the soldier stood and aimed the gun, pointing it toward Jeffrey’s heart.
Jeffrey lifted his own gun, aimed at the Reb, and pulled the trigger back. The gun exploded. The face in front of him registered recognition in the same instant he knew his own must have.
His left hand flew to the end of the barrel to stop the bullet’s path, but it was too late—as he knew it would be. The bullet would meet its target.
“No!” Jeffrey cried out.
Jarred awake, he sat up, shivering in the sweltering heat. Sweet God above, it couldn’t have happened.
He pressed his hand over his eyes and took a deep breath, willing his heartbeat to slow to normal. The smell of gunpowder faded into the pungent odor of smoke from the campfire.
Over and over in his head, he repeated: It hadn’t really happened. It was only a dream. It was only a dream…
More vivid this time than the last dozen times, this nightmare carved every detail, every texture, every sickening scent of gunpowder, and the smell of death into his soul.
The image of the Confederate’s face burned into his brain. Jeffrey couldn’t banish the image of the pain in the eyes of the soldier he shot and killed in his deepest nightmares. He knew that face, for it was a mirror reflection of his own.
It was the face of his twin sister.
Jeffrey inhaled and opened his eyes.
A dream.
No, a nightmare.
A dream within a dream.
Where was he? Jeffrey stirred, felt the softness of a mattress beneath him. And… the softness of a woman beside him.
Where was he?
There was a war. Soldiers.
A woman?
Try as he might, he couldn’t remember laying with a woman last night.
In fact, the last thing he remembered was being in the midst of a battle.
His heart plummeted.
Heaven.
He’d died and gone to Heaven.
He sighed and shifted his head to peer at the woman entwined in his arms.
Claire?
Did this mean that in Heaven his fantasies came true? Or did this mean that Claire had also died and he had found her in Heaven?
He didn’t know what to think about this.
She shifted and looked up at him. Seeing him awake, she gasped. “You’re awake,” she said, and the pink of a blush crept over her skin.
Blushed? Did angels blush?
She attempted to pull her fingers from his. He hadn’t realized that their fingers were locked, but now that he did, he held on and didn’t allow her to pull away. She felt real enough. Perhaps that was the way of Heaven.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“What? I don’t know.”
She shifted, leaning on her elbow, making him even more aware of her presence.
“What’s happened?” he asked, relaxing a little. If she were there with him in Heaven, perhaps it would not be so bad.
“You were wounded,” she answered.
“That seems to be a recurring theme.”
Her lips tugged up at the corners. “I noticed.”
“How did I get here?”
“Some soldiers brought you.”
Jeffrey thought back. The last he remembered, he had been with Marvin and Joseph and a Yankee regiment. Why would Yankee soldiers bring him here?
“Do you know which soldiers?”
Her forehead creased. “Rebel soldiers,” she said, confusion evident in her voice.
He looked at the ceiling and closed his eyes. What a tangled web we weave. He didn’t want Claire to see him as a Yankee. He wanted her to think him a pure southerner—like her. As he should have been. Unfortunately, it was too late for that.
Perhaps this was Hell.
“You’re not well,” she said, placing a hand against his forehead. “How do you feel?”
He choked back a laugh. Like Hell. And yet… How bad could it be? He was alive with a beautiful woman lying in bed with him. And not just any beautiful woman. Claire. “You really don’t want to know.”
“I’ll get you some water,” she said, sitting up to get off the bed.
He took her arm to stop her. “I’d really like it if you’d stay.”
She hesitated. “I’ll come right back,” she assured him.
He released her and watched as she left his room. Now that the fog had cleared a bit from his brain following his recurring nightmare, he was fairly certain that Claire was real and he hadn’t died after all.
The mystery remained, however, as to how he had been rescued by Confederate soldiers when he’d been with the Yankees.
For now, however, he had only one matter of importance.
How had Claire ended up in his bed?
And how would he keep her there?
Claire dropped the wooden bucket into the well and began to crank it back up.
“Let me help you with that.” Colonel Bonaire’s voice.
Claire fumbled the crank, almost dropping the bucket of water back into the well.
“I have it,” she said, her dismissive tone belying the panic tripping in her heart.
With her focus on Jeffrey, she had all but forgotten about Colonel Bonaire.
“How’s your favorite patient?”
There was no sense in denying it. “He’s awake.”
“I’m sure you’re relieved.”
She didn’t answer. Locking the crank, she pulled the bucket from the hook, and turned to him. “I have to go,” she said.
He stepped aside. “By all means.”
In the midst of a sigh of relief, he spoke again.
“I trust you haven’t forgotten the terms of our agreement.”
Claire sighed and put a hand to her brow. “How could I possibly forget,” she muttered. Then louder, “I never agreed to nurse everyone.”
“No,” he said, his voice stern. “However, you did agree to grant us succor in exchange for leaving you be.”
She turned, facing him, her chin tilted up. “The terms as you deem them, it seems, are not equitable.”
His eyes narrowed. “You seemed content with the terms until the Blue Belly appeared.”
Blue Belly? Of what did he speak?
“Indeed,” he continued. “Perhaps your loyalties lie outside the south.”
Turning back toward the house, she shook her head in dismissal. The man was touched.
“You don’t know,” he stated.
She halted. “No, I don’t know what it is you’re talking about.”
“Your… friend.”
“Jeffrey?” she whirled back, fear turning to anger. How dare he?
Colonel Bonaire smirked. “That’s right. Jeffrey. Your own little Yankee soldier.”
“No. He was brought in with Rebel soldiers… by Rebel soldiers. You know not of what you speak.”
“Very well,” he nodded. “You may persist in your delusion. However, you’ll see.”
She stormed into the house and slammed the door behind her, setting the bucket of water down with a slosh. What nerve. How dare he sleep under her roof and insult her guests!
She leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. Dear God, had Jeffrey been caught? She’d given him regular clothes and hidden his blue uniform. How could Colonel Bonaire suspect him?
Pulling herself from the door, she marched into Jeffrey’s room, but almost faltered. He looked so serene, so peaceful lying there. How could she doubt him?
Steeling herself, she went to the bed and threw back the blankets.
&n
bsp; Colonel Bonaire was right. How had she not noticed?
His pants were blue.
“Jeffrey, what have you done?” She choked out.
He opened his eyes. “There you are.” He looked at her. “Where’s that water?”
She swallowed. Where was the water, indeed?
“Jeffrey,” she said, her voice hoarse.
He glanced down at his exposed clothing. He shook his head. “It’s not what you think.”
“How could you?” she breathed.
“No-”
“I don’t understand.” Her brain whirled with confusion. “How is it that you were brought here by southerners? While wearing the blue of the North?”
Chapter Eight
Jeffrey sat on the front porch, paper and pen in hand, watching the activity. Romeo sat at his feet, his head on his paws, his eyes closed. The sun was directly overhead, leaving the air perfectly warmed. It would be summer soon.
Claire had not visited him since storming from his room the day before. Instead, Grandpa had brought his food and changed his bandages.
Claire fed other men and changed bandages on other men. Not that he begrudged them, but… he liked it better when he had all her attention. If only he had been awake for more than a few precious minutes of it.
It was probably too soon for him to be out of bed, but he had grown weary of lying on his back. He was tired of being an invalid, especially around Claire. He wanted her to see him as a man, whole and virile.
He blended well with the wounded Confederates. Claire had made sure of that. He wasn’t sure what she had done with his first Yankee uniform, but he had not seen it since returning to her home. The second uniform had been burned—that much he knew. He currently wore a Southern uniform, tattered though it was, that had belonged to a Southern soldier who hadn’t made it.
Truth be told, he no longer wanted to wear blue. He didn’t want to wear gray or blue, just regular clothes. He wanted the war to go away so he could be with Claire. Just the two of them. And Gramps, of course. But it was Claire he longed for.
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