Claire stood over the stove, tossing tomatoes, onions, and potatoes into a cast iron kettle. Her stomach churned. They never should have taken Jeffrey in. He didn’t understand. He didn’t get it that not everyone in the south planted cotton. Not everyone in the south was uneducated.

Sure, she’d never been to finishing school, but she read all the time. All the time, at least when she wasn’t busy with chores and such to keep herself and Grandpa fed and comfortable.

She was certain she could hold an intelligent conversation with any Yankee! On top of that, she could add and subtract and even multiply as evidenced by the careful, exact records she kept for the household.

Grandpa had told her it was unnecessary, and it probably was, but she enjoyed seeing their financial state in black and white. It allowed her to know that they would make it through the next winter.

Glancing up from stirring the soup, she jumped, startled out of her thoughts, to see Grandpa standing there, watching her. “Grandpa!” she said, putting her hand to her heart. “What are you doing up? You scared me half to death.”

“I’m sorry, Kitten,” he said, pulling a chair from the breakfast table and sitting down, stretching his legs. “You seemed to be deep in thought and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Oh, well… I was.”

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“I was just thinking about how it’s almost time to start planting and I was wondering if we will be able to plant with Yankees outside our door.”

“I’m sure we’ll find a way,” he said.

She shook her head, went to sit with him at the table. “It’s harder with the war.”

“The war is just beginning, I’m afraid.”

“I keep hoping it’ll end.”

He shook his head, looked toward the window, at something only he could see. “It’s at our doorstep. Already, it touches us.”

“The soldier in your bedroom,” she said, nodding, going back to the stove to stir the soup. The Yankee soldier was all she’d thought about since she’d first laid eyes on him.

“They’ve already found us. Soon there will be a battle at our door,” he repeated. “We’ll be caught in the midst of it.”

Grandpa…”

“Hear me out,” he said, pulling his gaze back to hers.

She stood, watching him, her heart heavy, the spoon forgotten in her hand.

“When that happens, you have to get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving, Grandpa.”

“Yes, I know. You’ve said so. But there will come a time when you’ll have no choice.”

“Grandpa.” She set down the spoon and went back to sit next to him. “You’re scaring me.  Did you have a dream or something?”

“No,” he said, with a wry grin. “I’m just old and I can see things coming that young people don’t think about.”

“You’re still frightening me.”

“I don’t mean to. Well, maybe a little. I just want you to be safe.”

With a sigh, she conceded. “When it’s time to leave, we’ll both go.”

“All right, Kitten,” he said.

She knew he was merely appeasing her. But she also knew she wouldn’t leave this house without him, even if she had to drag him along with her.

“All right,” she said, brightly. “Enough negativity. Supper is ready.”

“Wonderful,” Grandpa said. “You can take some to our guest.”

Our guest. So that’s how Grandpa had begun to think of Jeffrey. The Yankee soldier who’d broken into their home, and gotten himself shot for intruding. Now he was their guest.

She couldn’t blame him, of course. She, too, found herself thinking of Jeffrey as more than just an intruder, more than just a Yankee soldier… and more than just a guest.

 

“The best ones are from Cuba.”

“Absolutely. But, we haven’t gotten any since the war.”

“You can still get them, you know.”

“Well sure, you can, but they cost a pretty penny.”

“I can help you out with that. I know a guy…” Jeffrey stopped talking when he glanced up and saw Claire standing in the doorway.

“I would give anything for just one good cigar.” Grandpa closed his eyes, looking toward the ceiling, as though remembering the taste of a good Cuban cigar. He was stretched out in the chair next to what used to be his bed.

Jeffrey cleared his throat and Grandpa turned to look sheepishly at his granddaughter. Jeffrey lowered his gaze and concentrated on the soup Grandpa had brought him.

“I was just keeping Jeffrey company while he ate his dinner.”

“I see,” Claire said. She wasn’t sure how she felt about her grandfather making friends with Jeffrey, much less conspiring to obtain expensive cigars. As far as she knew, Grandpa didn’t even smoke.

“I’ll be outside on the porch if you need me,” Claire said, and turned on her heel. She didn’t dare stay for fear that she would say something she would regret.

Grabbing her basket of knitting, she went outside and settled into the wooden rocker Grandpa had made before she was born.

She allowed her mind to drift back. Had Grandpa smoked cigars when she was younger? She remembered her father doing so. Perhaps Grandpa had sat on this very porch himself and smoked fine cigars.

She couldn’t blame him for wanting to indulge. Perhaps he could take some of that Confederate money he was so determined that she take and spend it on some good cigars. Maybe she would just make the offer to Jeffrey herself.

That thought gave her pause. Her hands idle, she looked toward the horizon. And found herself listening for sounds of the war. Instead, birds and crickets chirped and a dog barked in the distance. All these were normal sounds of the evening, nothing to suggest that a war raged around them.

Of course there was the question of trusting Jeffrey to get them for him. If they gave him money, would they ever see it again? He was, after all, a Yankee.

A Yankee receiving aid and succor in their home. Would they be seen as traitors? A surge of protectiveness shot through her toward Jeffrey. Unexpectedly. She was still angry with him. Or was she? Perhaps she wasn’t. The anger seemed to have dissipated. That didn’t seem so unusual. She wasn’t one to hold a grudge. When she did get angry, it was fast and strong, then over with.

What did surprise her was the fierce sense of protectiveness toward their Yankee guest. If someone came looking for him, perhaps she would deny that he was here. Or at least, deny that he was a Yankee soldier. She would take him some of Grandpa’s clothing.

Having made a decision, and being unwilling to explore these unexpected emotions further, she concentrated on her knitting and pushed aside thoughts of their guest.

 

“I’d rather wear my uniform,” Jeffrey said, watching Claire closely. He found it interesting that she’d been angry with him for most of the afternoon, even through supper, now here she was, standing there holding a pair of pants and a shirt, both in neutral shades of brown. And quite worn, by the looks of the threadbare cuffs.

“You should wear these,” she said.

“My uniform is perfectly sufficient.”

“I’m sure it is, but I think you’d be better off if you’d wear these.”

There was a color to her cheeks again. One that he was quickly growing fond of. He wasn’t sure what elicited it, but he could think of other things that he’d like to try to put it there.

She shook her head. “I’m only trying to help you.”

“Indeed,” he said, forcing his thoughts to focus on what she was saying, instead of what he’d like to do to her. “Tell me, how is it helpful for me to wear something other than my uniform?”

She sighed, but kept her gaze on his, raising her chin a notch. “Very well,” she said, with resignation. “When they come and take you away, don’t complain to me.” Turning, she took a step toward the door, paused, and, turning back, dropped the pants and shirt on the foot of his bed. With a glare, she turned again and left him.

He watched her leave, then smiled.

He had been right. She had come back. He still wasn’t sure, first of all, why she had felt compelled to bring him clothes, and second, why she had bothered to bring them when she was obviously still upset with him.

Was she worried that someone would come and take him away? Perhaps she was worried that the Yankee soldiers would come for him.

Shifting beneath the blankets, he pondered that notion further. Perhaps she was afraid that the Rebels would come and take him prisoner. He was, after all, wearing a Yankee uniform.

Suddenly fighting for the Yankees didn’t seem quite as compelling. It occurred to him then that he may be putting Claire and Gramps in danger by being here as a Yankee soldier. They were, after all, offering him succor.

Reaching toward the end of the bed, he dragged the clothes Claire had left and, without getting out of bed, changed into them. He refused to run the risk of endangering his new friend and the woman he was going to marry.

Stuffing his uniform beneath the mattress, he contemplated this line of reasoning for the hundredth time.

Was that really what Claire was? He had already admitted to himself that she was what he had been looking for. Did he dare to take her home?

Would she go?

Probably not without a fight.

Claire was a true southern lady and he was a Yankee soldier.

 

Claire went outside to the water well and dropped the bucket into the water until she heard the splash, then began to crank it back up.

What was it about Jeffrey that could send her blood into a boil?

There was something about him that set her nerves on edge. He was a handsome man, with clean features, almost boyish sometimes, and other times incredibly sexy.

She was intrigued by him. He haunted her thoughts. He was a Yankee soldier, but he seemed to be a gentleman, well-educated.

Taking the bucket of water, she went back into the house and started heating some water on the stove to wash her face. It was colder tonight.

She paced the living room, peeking out behind the white lacy curtains between her rounds. Finally, as the water began to heat, she went back to sit on a chair next to the stove. Putting her hands over her face, she wondered what she should do.

She had given him clothes to put on, but he had refused. She wasn’t sure how she could protect him now. Him and her grandfather. She wasn’t so worried about herself. Being a woman, she could get away with more. But the men needed more protection—more plausibility for their actions.

The water heated, she poured some into a basin and ran a warm wash cloth over her face, holding it there, allowing the heat to seep into her skin.

She relished the warmth so much, she decided to share the warm water with her grandfather, but when she went to his door, he was gently snoring and she didn’t dare wake him.

Hearing her name softly called from the neighboring bedroom caught her attention. With a sigh, she knocked on the door and pushed it open as Jeffrey bid her to come inside.

He sat there under the blanket, just as she had left him. The first thing she noticed was that the clothes she had left were no longer there. What did he do with them?

Not sure why he had summoned her, she quickly assessed things—he had water on the nightstand, so that wasn’t what he wanted. Perhaps he was hungry.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, causing her to lift her brows.

Perhaps he was a mind-reader now. “What do you want?”

“I was wondering if you’d heard anything about the status of the war.”

“The war?”

“Yes, you know, the war between the states. The fighting outside your doorstep and so on,” he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“First of all, there has been no fighting on my doorstep, and second, I’m quite aware of the war. It’s all anyone has talked about for three years. I merely expected that you needed something other than information about your war.”

“It’s anything but my war,” he said, his face growing serious.

“Tell me what happened,” she said, sitting on the edge of the chair next to his bed.

His eyes met hers, his expression doubtful.

“I’d like to know,” she said.

He scooted up, shifting the pillows behind him. She jumped up and helped him adjust the pillows. Her arms behind him on either side, her face was only inches from his. She blinked with the realization and slowly lifted her eyes to his.

An unexpected jolt shot through her. She’d noticed his eyes before, but at this close proximity, the blueness reminded her of a clear, cloudless summer sky.

She moved her hands from behind his head. He took her hands in his. She jumped at the touch. He gripped her hands tightly, as though he would never let go.

She found herself gripping his hands back as their eyes remained locked on each other. Her heart picked up a quick tempo and her breath came quickly.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” she whispered.

“For saving my life.”

She didn’t answer him. She was too lost in his eyes. In the feel of his hands on hers.

The blanket had dropped away from his shoulders, but otherwise, he hadn’t moved.

He smiled and she returned the smile.

Then he released her hands and she sat back, her heart hammering in her chest.

“I’ll get you some coffee,” she said, at a loss for what to do.

“All right,” he said, “Then I’ll tell you what happened.”

“What happened,” she echoed.

“What happened to me in the war,” he said, with a smile.

“Oh, of course,” she said, rushing from the room. She had to get away from him.

She put water on to heat for coffee and felt the heat in her face. The heat wasn’t, however, from the stove. It was from the contact with Jeffrey. She wanted to hurry and get back to him. Yet she needed time to compose herself.

Her heart was still beating rapidly when Grandpa came into the room.

“You’re up again,” she said.

“You’re smiling,” he answered.

Her face flushed. Was it so obvious that Jeffrey had such an effect on her? The idea caused her face to flush even more. She turned away and focused on pouring water into the mug.

After stirring the coffee, she turned back to Grandpa. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked. He looked stronger than he had for some time and had a half smile on his face.

“I feel better than I have in weeks.”

“Truly?” What had brought this on?

“Yes,” he said, staring into space now, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

“What do you think caused this?” she asked.

He shifted his gaze back to her. “Perhaps it’s the weather,” he said, then shook his head. “Maybe it’s because I got kicked out of my bed.”

After a moment, a bubble of laughter burst from her throat. “Perhaps that’s all it took.”

“Could be.” He joined in her laughter. “Is that coffee for you?” he asked, nodding toward the mug she held, untouched.

“No,” she glanced down, feeling the flush return to her face. “It’s for Jeffrey.”

“Well, take it to him,” he said. “I’ll make some for myself.”

“Are you sure?”

He waved her away as he moved toward the stove. “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

As she left, she pondered his statement. Only until a day or so ago, he had, indeed, been an invalid.

Until the Yankee soldier appeared in his bedroom.

She stopped in her tracks, there in the hallway, halfway between the kitchen and the bedroom.

Jeffrey was wearing the clothes she had left with him.