Jeffrey heard voices.

There was a man and a woman – perhaps an angel. Maybe he’d died and gone to Heaven. But no, he wasn’t likely to end up in Heaven.

Someone was tugging on him, pulling his legs, but he wasn’t moving. He tried to help, but his body wouldn’t respond.

His shoulder burned. Something had happened to him.

He’d been in a house. Trying to find food for himself and Joseph, when it had happened.

It occurred to him that he’d been shot. But why would anyone in the house shoot him? He was only trying to help a friend.

He faded out again, into a dream world.

In the dream, he was at Chene Ruelle, with his twin sister, Alexandra.

The sun shone down warmly on their heads. They lured their old tutor, Nate Basil, outside for their studies as often as they could.

Today, with a cool breeze coming off the river, it was warmer in the sun than the shade. He was tired of conjugating French verbs. He longed to get on his horse and ride. Writing a note to Alexandra, he slid it across to her when he thought Nate wasn’t looking. She giggled.

Come on, it read. Let’s get out of here.

“Master Jeffrey,” Nate said, in a tone replete with patience and knowledge. “Your sister is deep in her studies. It’s inconsiderate of you to attempt to pull her away.”

Jeffrey’s jaw dropped as it always did when Nate Basil seemed to read his mind.

“It’s all right,” Alexandra said. “I don’t mind. I’ll go with him.”

Jeffrey was aware that he was dreaming at this point, but that didn’t change anything. He continued to dream. This was a good dream.

He and Alexandra, astride horses, raced across the cotton fields. The horses sprouted wings and they flew across the river, the horses’ wings dipping into the murky water.

The dream shifted again and he stood on a battlefield crowded with Rebel soldiers in gray. He looked down and saw his own gray uniform. Alexandra was no longer with him.

He called out to her. She didn’t answer. He began looking among the soldiers, but couldn’t find her. He called out to her again. Then the firing began. Smoke from the bullets burned his eyes. Bullets flew all around him, over his head. He moved forward with the soldiers toward the trees. He tried to wake up, but the dream continued.

The smoke cleared and he looked up, toward the ridge lined with trees.

Alexandra sat atop a winged horse, staring down at him, her eyes locked onto his.

She wore a blue Yankee uniform. Her face appeared stern, not seeming to recognize him. He stretched his hand out to her, called her name. She lifted a musket, aimed, and fired at him.

He saw the bullet flying toward him, in slow motion.

He blacked out.

Then he blinked and he was awake.

Laying quietly, his eyes still closed, he listened to the silence punctuated only by the steady ticking of a clock.

A clock. He was home. Safe.

Several minutes passed. Calm now, he drifted back to a dreamless sleep. He woke with a hand on his forehead. It was soon replaced by a cool damp cloth.

He swallowed thickly. Blinked. And opened his eyes.

And stared into the eyes of an angel.

Beautiful clear green eyes. She stared back at him, surprise evident in her face.

He smiled. And she returned the smile.

He was entranced.

Her delicate features were framed with rich light brown hair that fell around her shoulders. He longed to reach up and touch her hair, but his hand would not move.

He blinked, expecting her to disappear, but she didn’t.

Jeffry had never been shot, but he’d seen enough gunshot wounds to assume that’s what happened to him. Either that or someone had stabbed him. He was going with the gunshot.

 

Claire didn’t know why she’d let her hair down. Typically, she wore it pulled back and twisted on top of her head except for special occasions. Perhaps keeping a Yankee soldier in the house was a special occasion—especially a handsome Yankee soldier.

As she pressed a cool cloth against his forehead, he blinked and opened his eyes. Her heart tripped a little as his eyes locked onto hers. Bright, blue, lovely eyes. She may have thought he was handsome before, but now that he’d opened his eyes and smiled at her, her heart tripped into a rapid speed, her pulse racing.

“Did you shoot me?” he asked.

“What?” she asked, taken aback. “God, no!”

“But I was shot?”

She nodded.

He frowned. “Someone else shot me?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t know who.” He studied her expression. “Or you can’t tell me.”

She took a deep breath. Could she get away with not telling him? She felt absolutely awful about what happened. She didn’t want him to hold it against Grandpa. He’d only been protecting them.

“I’d rather not,” she said.

He started to laugh, but coughed instead.

She grabbed a glass of water and put it to his lips, holding his head up gently. He drank in big gulps of the cool water.

“Not too much at one time,” she said. “It’ll all come back up.”

Leaning his head back on the pillow, he met her gaze again, this time curiously. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Claire.”

“Claire,” he repeated. Her name sounded different on his tongue—special somehow. “I’m Jeffrey.”

“Nice to meet you, Jeffrey.”

The corners of his mouth curved up. “Since you didn’t shoot me, I suppose it’s safe to thank you for saving my life.”

“It wasn’t me, really. But you’re welcome.”

He closed his eyes.

She waited. After a few seconds, she began to worry that he had lost consciousness again.

Grandpa came and stood at the door, leaning against the door case. “I thought I heard voices.”

Without taking her eyes off Jeffrey’s face, she answered softly. “He wants to know who shot him.”

“Well, did you tell him?”

She glanced at Grandpa. “You shouldn’t be up.”

“Probably not,” he agreed.

She studied him more carefully now. He sagged against the wall. She went to him, taking his arm. “Let’s get you back in bed.”

“I’m all right,” he said, but didn’t resist her.

“I didn’t tell him,” she confessed, as she helped him lift his legs onto the bed in the guest room.

“You have to.”

“I don’t want him to take revenge on you.”

“I’m an old man. Besides, if he tries anything, I’ll shoot him again.”

Claire shook her head. “He’s too weak to try anything.”

“Maybe later,” Grandpa answered.

“I don’t know.”

“I guess it’s safe to tell him then.”

“I don’t think he needs to know.”

“I don’t see how you can keep it from him.”

“I can tell him I don’t know.”

Grandpa raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I suppose you could. That you found him lying outside.”

She nodded. “Exactly.”

Grandpa didn’t respond. She pulled the blankets up around his shoulders.

“It’ll be some time before he wakes up again anyway.”

“They might come looking for him.”

That sent a spark of fear through her. First of all, she didn’t want a passel of Yankees coming into her home.

And… the second thought came unbidden, so much so, that she nearly dropped the candle she held in her hand.  She didn’t want them dragging her handsome patient away.  “Do you really think they’d send soldiers to look for him?”

The worry must have been evident in her face. He shook his head. “I doubt they would bother. He’s just one soldier in a world turned upside down.”

After leaving her grandfather, Claire went back to check on Jeffrey. As she stood looking down at his face, serene in sleep, she thought about her grandfather’s words. He’s just one solider in a world turned upside down.

Who had he left behind? Who was waiting at home to hear from him? Just a word. Any word that he was alive and well.

Someone thought about him in this instant. Someone hoped—and prayed that he was being taken care of if he was injured.

Perhaps he had a child at home, waiting for word that he was well. It didn’t matter what color uniform he wore. He’s just one soldier. But it was more than that. He was important to someone.

Perhaps there was a woman waiting for him. A woman in love with him—who cherished his lips against hers and his arms around her as they slept through the night.

Her cheeks heated at the direction in which her thoughts veered. She’d always thought of the Yankees as the enemy. But this one—this man, tugged at her heart.

She longed to see his smile again. To learn more about him. To spend time talking with him again. She stopped her thoughts from their errant path. I’m too isolated.

Putting her hand on his forehead, she allowed her fingers to drift down his cheek, across the stubble there.

He opened his eyes, his mouth turned up at the corners. Her hand stilled. Their eyes locked on one another.

She pulled her hand back, shrugged. “Your fever seems to have abated,” she said.

“Thanks to you,” he said.

“I didn’t do anything,” she said, reaching for the pitcher of water.

“Beauty, intelligence, and modesty,” he commented. “A perfect package.”

Her hand shook a little as she handed him the glass. “And you, sir, have a smooth tongue.”

He drank deeply. This time, she didn’t try to stop him. So far he had held everything down.

“Perhaps,” he answered, finally, his eyes holding something she couldn’t quite fathom. “There’s an older man here,” he said.

“My grandfather.” She pressed her hands together in her lap, her nails digging into her flesh.

“Did he shoot me?”

She didn’t answer. Merely cocked her head to one side as though to say the question was inane.

He kept his eyes on hers. “Who else lives here?”

“No one,” she answered automatically.

“I see,” he said, glancing toward the door.

A tangle of fear swept through her gut. She took a step back, also glancing at the door.

Jeffrey grabbed her hand, tugged her back against the bed. She hadn’t expected such strength from a man who had spent the past few hours unconscious.

“I’m asking, not because I would hurt you, but because you’re in the midst of a battle.”

She relaxed a little, believing him. “We haven’t heard any sounds of battle since yesterday.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re out there. Plotting. Probably even watching your house because of its location.”

“It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“Exactly. That makes it all the more attractive.”

She pulled at her hand, but he had quite a grip. She struggled to focus on his talk of battle, but the feel of his hand distracted her. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know. Why do you think I was in your house?”

She studied him. “Why were you in our house?”

“I needed food for my friend.”

She glanced back at the door.

“Don’t worry. He didn’t come. He’s been shot and needs food. We were separated from our regiment.”

“Where is he?”

He shook his head, twining his fingers with hers. “I don’t know. He’s probably dead by now.”

“Oh my. Shouldn’t you do something?”

“No. He’s no longer my concern.”

“That’s an awful thing to say about your friend.”

“There wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it.”

She realized then that his fingers were no longer gripping hers, but were entwined with hers. She could easily have pulled away, but she didn’t want to. The feel of his skin against hers sent little shivers through her.

He squeezed her hand and waited until her eyes met his. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“You’re welcome,” she said, her voice breathless to her own ears.

“I’d like to repay you,” he said.

“Repay?” This was a perplexing turn of events.

“Yes, if there’s anything my family can do for you, you have to tell me.”

A little bubble of anger drifted up and hit her squarely between the eyes. She yanked her hand from his. “I didn’t help you in to order to receive some kind of payment.”

He pressed a hand against his temple. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply.”

“You think just because we live in the South. In the-the country, that we would only help someone like you for a reward.” Though her voice remained soft, she straightened in indignation.

“Hold on,” he said, holding up a hand. “Wait just a cotton-picking minute.”

“A cotton—” Claire breathed in sharply. “Did you see any cotton planted in my fields? No,” she answered, before he had a chance. “You certainly did not. You think just because I live in the South, I plant cotton. Well, I’ll have you know, sir, that not everyone in the South plants cotton.”

Jeffrey winced as he put his good hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She took a step back—took a deep breath. I will not let this man—this Yankee get under my skin. I will set a good example of a true Southerner. “No need to apologize.” Her voice was calm now, regulated. “You’ll finish healing and go on your way.”

Turning on her heels, her head held high, she left the room.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, as her skirts whisked out of the room, though he realized she didn’t hear him.

He’d found her pretty before, but the anger had brought a glow to her skin that he found absolutely breathtaking and charming.

His head was spinning as to the cause of her anger, but whatever he had said to elicit it, he wasn’t sorry. Indeed, he was even more intrigued.

He knew a southern lady when he saw one—he’d grown up surrounded by them. But this one reminded him of his sister. She had that spark and passion that many well-bred ladies had had refined out of them.

This was the kind of woman he’d been looking for. Someone with breeding and fire. He’d had plenty of women with fire, just no breeding. And of course, all the mothers of girls a certain age and social class in the southern part of Louisiana had attempted to throw their well-bred daughters in his direction. He’d certainly looked. But found no fire to go along with the breeding.

But here… here was the fire and the breeding. He wanted to get out of bed and follow her. But his limbs just wouldn’t obey. He hadn’t recovered enough yet to command himself to even stand up.

He sighed. She would, of course, have to come back. This was her house. And he was her patient. In the meantime, he would suffer from her absence.

Her soft scent—like springtime. Her clear green eyes. Her delicate features. Her long brown hair. Her soft, gentle hands.

He hardly knew her. But he knew all he needed to know.

He was smitten.

He’d known this feeling one other time—when he was seven and Mary Beth Fields had stolen his heart. He could stare at her for hours with a stupid grin on his face. She’d died of yellow fever when she was twelve. That was the last time he’d felt that flutter of the heart.

Until now.

Now he was old enough to know what it meant. He just hoped he didn’t have that same stupid grin on his face. If he did, well, then so be it. It was worth it. To feel the rush of blood through his veins—the feeling of being alive and wanting to stay that way.

Of wondering what the next minute would bring.

He would marry her, of course.

He closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to wander. Thoughts of bringing her home to Grand-père and Alexandra. Showing her around Chene Ruelle.

Then it occurred to him that he could do none of that.

Jeffrey Couvion had died in a steamboat explosion.