Claire woke with candlelight in her eyes, blinding her. Her muscles ached with fatigue, as though spent. She shifted her head, moving from the blinding light. And her gaze lit on Jeffrey sprawled in the chair next to her bed.

A new beard shadowed his face. A lock of black hair fell across his forehead. He slept, his mouth slightly open. Romeo, one paw across his nose, lounged on the floor at his feet.

Her thoughts swirled in confusion. Why was she in the bed with him at her side? He was the injured one and she tended him. She closed her eyes, but her mind refused to make sense of their situation.

He stirred and his eyes flew open, locking onto hers. A quick intake of breath as she was lost in those deep blue pools. Intense. God, but he was handsome. She swallowed thickly.

“Claire?” his voice was husky, uncertain.

She merely looked at him.

His feet slammed against the floor as he moved toward her. He placed a hand on her forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Well, I guess.”

His brow furrowed as he studied her.

“Why am I here?” she asked. “And why are you up?”

His lips tilted at the corners. “One of us had to be out of the bed.”

Putting her hands over her face, she looked away from him.

He laughed, then sobered. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But if I hadn’t been awake, you might have died.”

“How long?” she began. Grandpa!

“Since yesterday... when we came out of the basement.”

She glanced at the window. Darkness. It had been well over twenty-four hours. “Grandpa?” she choked out, her heart clutching with fear. Had Jeffrey even thought to check on him?

“He’s well. We just finished supper.”

She exhaled, her breath blowing hair that had fallen over her cheek. “Thank you.”

He tilted his head and studied her. “You thought I would forget about him.”

She shook her head, lowering her eyes. “Of course not.”

Her eyes met his blue ones and she held her breath.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

Her thoughts swirled, lost in emotion. She should say something. Thank you. You’re beautiful, too. I love you.

She inhaled sharply. No! She didn’t love him. She hardly knew him. This Jeffrey Couvion. He could be a scoundrel!

She pulled her hand away, ignoring his look of confusion. “I should go to Grandpa. See if he needs anything.”

He frowned. “I’m not sure you should be up. I can bring him here.”

Claire started to protest, but even the thought of moving her muscles enough to get out of bed was more than she could muster. “All right,” she said.

However, instead of leaving, he twisted his fingers with hers. His eyes locked on hers, he squeezed her hand as though he would never let go.

She squeezed back and smiled at him, biting her lip.

A blast of cannon fire shook the house, rattling the windows.

Claire inhaled sharply. “The Yankees! They’re back.”

Jeffrey glanced toward the window. “Could be. Could be Southerners.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” he asked, turning back to study her.

“Southerners aren’t stupid enough to fire at night.”

“You could be right,” he said.

“If they can’t see us, they might fire on the house.”

“I’ll go see,” Jeffrey said.

“You can’t go out there!”

“Like you said, if they don’t know we’re here, they might hit us.”

“It’s not safe.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be back,” he said.

 

Jeffrey took the gun from the nightstand and slipped out the door into the cool darkness. Leaving Claire proved to be more difficult than he had expected. It’s the only way to protect her.

The thunder of cannons pierced the night air. Why were they firing at night?

His heart full of trepidation, he moved toward the thunder, dashing behind the cover of trees.

He gulped in ragged breaths of air. His recovery had left him unprepared for this physical onslaught.

Peering into the darkness from behind the cover of an oak tree, he froze at the prick of a bayonet in the small of his back. 

“

“How should I know?”

Jeffrey’s mind went into confusion. It couldn’t be! He attempted to turn his head to see behind him.

“Cut it out, Reb!” One of the men poked him again with the bayonet.

“Marvin? Is that you?” Jeffrey asked.

“Jeffrey?” The man poked him again.

“Hey, cut it out!” Jeffrey called.

“Don’t poke at Jeffrey,” Joseph demanded.

“Joseph? I thought you were dead.”

Joseph laughed. “Not me.”

“How do we know it’s him?” Marvin asked.

“If you’d stop poking me, I’d turn around.”

Joseph punched Marvin against the shoulder. Jeffrey turned around and squinted through the darkness at his two friends. “What are you two idiots doing out here?”

“Where have you been?”

“I was shot."

“Who shot you?” Joseph asked.

“Not me,” Marvin commented, scratching the back of his head.

Jeffrey rubbed his hand over his eyes. “It wasn’t either one of you. It was an old man.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No, I did not kill him,” Jeffrey said, glaring at Joseph.

“Well, why not?”

“Mostly because it was an accident. And because he and his daughter saved my life.”

Marvin shifted, staring blankly at Jeffrey, then he turned to Joseph. “He’s addled.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it before.”

“I’m not addled.”

“What do we do with him?”

“How should I know?”

Jeffrey glared at his two Yankee friends.

“I guess we can’t just leave him here… can we?”

Joseph shrugged. He opened his mouth, but cannon fire stopped him from making whatever comment he was about to make.

“At night? What’s wrong with these people?” Jeffrey clutched his gun.

Marvin grabbed his arm. “Come on,” he demanded, pulling Jeffrey behind him. Joseph followed.

“Where are you taking me?” Jeffrey asked, keeping his voice low. His stomach clutched at the idea of being taken behind enemy lines. An image of Claire flashed in his mind.

“Just keep it down,” Marvin suggested.

“Why aren’t you with your regiment?” Jeffrey asked.

“We had a new assignment,” Joseph answered.

“Shut up,” Marvin suggested.

“Is it a secret?” Jeffrey asked.

“Only if you’re a Rebel,” Joseph said, with a laugh.

Jeffrey’s hair on the back of his head tingled. For an instant, he thought, I’m a Rebel. Then he caught himself. I fight for the North. That image of Claire once again flashed before him. He held his silence.

They trudged through the murky swamp, heading west. “Where are we headed?” Jeffrey asked again.

“Back to camp.”

“I thought camp was that way.” Jeffrey indicated the east with a nod of his head.

“You’ve been away too long.”

“Not long enough,” Jeffrey murmured.

They trudged through the mud, past debris left by soldiers of one side or the other. They trudged along in silence. Jeffrey’s mind raced. Did he betray Claire by being here with the Yankees? The ones who set out to destroy her home and her way of life? His feet lagged heavy as he walked further away from her. He only set out to find out what was going on. Not to leave her.

I promise I won’t be long.

I wish you wouldn’t go.

It’s the only way to know.

Please be safe…

He stopped. Ran his hand through his hair.

He shouldn’t have left Claire. That was all there was to it. No matter what his intentions, she was alone. And he may not be able to get back to her as easily as he had expected.

“Look,” he began, stopping. “I need to go back that way.” He gestured back the way they had come.

The bayonet didn’t come this time, but their looks pierced him just as effectively. And the suspicion was tangible.

“I left my gear,” he added.

“What gear? You didn’t have anything last time we saw you.”

“Yeah, well, I acquired some.”

“You can get it later,” Marvin said, walking again.

Jeffrey found himself pulled both ways. He needed to get back to Claire. He obviously needed to go with these men or they would suspect something. As he stood there, immobile, Joseph pulled him, not too gently, by the shoulder.

“This way,” he said, with a nod of the head.

Jeffrey allowed himself to be pulled along. He would have to go with these men for now. Then, when he was able to do so without jeopardizing Claire, he would go back to her. His gut knotted with trepidation.

When they arrived at the camp, the other soldiers ignored them, only occasionally sending a disinterested glance in their direction.

The Yankees, it seemed, weren’t all that interested in him after all.

 

 

Claire dumped a bucket of water into the washtub and stretched as she glanced toward the line of trees. A light breeze ruffled her hair as she dipped a cotton shirt into the soapy water and began scrubbing. Romeo sat at her feet, his eyes closed and head on his paws. Grandpa sat on the front porch, his eyes closed too, as he soaked up the warm sunshine.

Jeffrey had been gone for almost six hours, since just before the sun came up. And already she watched for him. If truth be told, she had been watching for him for well… just about half a minute short of almost six hours.

She should be repelled by the fact that he was a Yankee. Yet… he was nothing like she expected a Yankee to be. He was kind. Even Grandpa had taken a liking to him. And he was handsome. Her cheeks heated with the thought of his hands on hers. Perhaps she should dump the bucket of water over her head next time instead of into the washtub.

Romeo jumped up, barked once, and dashed toward the trees, his tail brushing the ground.

What got into him? Claire turned, looking to her right and heard the approaching soldiers in gray before they emerged around the bend in the road. Three years ago she had watched them travel north—proud and confident. Now, their uniforms were soiled and torn. Many had no shoes. Many limped, injured. Others were merely dragged along by their companions.

Her heart ached for them. Then with a start, she realized why they were headed down her road.

It was time for her to honor the deal she had made with Colonel Bonaire.

As the soldiers passed her, moving toward her house, she saw the hope in their eyes. Hope that she had only offered in desperation.

Grandpa roused from his nap and watched the soldiers warily. Claire swallowed hard with the realization that she should have told him. She had hoped nothing would come of it.

Allowing the shirt to plop into the water, she wiped her hands on her skirt and watched the soldiers wind their way onto her land. An officer on a worn, yet proud gray stallion trotted to a stop in front of her.

“Colonel Bonaire,” Claire said, lifting her eyes to his, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach.

“Miss Whitman,” he echoed, tipping his hat.

So much for hoping and praying it would never come to pass.

“Your kind offer is much appreciated,” he said, glancing toward the soldiers.

“I honor my agreements,” she stated.

“I was certain you would,” he said, turning his gaze back to hers.

She was a little surprised by what she saw in his face. He smiled with a cockiness and with what she instinctively knew to be interest. Her spine stiffened.

“Your men are welcome here as we agreed. I have nothing else to offer you.”

He drew back slightly, his horse neighing. “As you wish,” he said, and turned his steed away, toward the back of the house where his men were already setting up tents and spreading out supplies.

With a heavy sigh, she set off toward the porch where her grandfather watched her, confusion evident even at this distance.

“Claire,” he began. “What is this?”

She rubbed a hand against her temple. “I’m sorry, Grandpa. I should have told you.”

“You knew?”

“I hoped it wouldn’t happen.”

He waited silently for her to continue.

The line of wounded gray continued to pool in their yard, flowing all around the house.

“A few days ago when Colonel Bonaire was here,” she paused.

He nodded.

“I made an agreement with him that we could stay here,” her words came in a rush. “He wanted us to leave, but he agreed that we could stay if he could use our land as an infirmary.”

“Why does he need it?”

She shook her head. “I’m not really sure. I think he wants to use our well and he ‘um… he wants to use the third bedroom.”

Grandpa was silent. His lips thinned and his neck reddened.

She shook her head. “He was going to insist that we leave.”

“Perhaps that would have been best,” he said softly.

“No,” she insisted. “I won’t be forced from my home.”

Grandpa shrank back in his chair. “It isn’t worth it,” he said.

“It shouldn’t be so bad,” she persisted.

“If he so much as lays a hand on you…” His eyes narrowed and there was a growl in his voice that she had never heard.

“He won’t come near me.”

“It’s not safe here without Jeffrey.”

Claire swallowed a bubble of laughter. How had it become lost on Grandpa that Jeffrey was the enemy? The same way it became lost on me.

Grandpa opened his mouth to say something else, but closed it when a soldier rushed up to Claire.

“Miss Whitman.” The boy, not more than fifteen, stood next to her.

She turned and waited for him to continue.

“Can you come and help?”

“Help?”

“Yes,” he said, his breath shallow. “The doc won’t be here for a few days and we need your help.”

Claire glanced at Grandpa. He shook his head as though to say, I told you so.

“I’m not a nurse,” she said.

“Everyone here is hurt or sick,” he persisted.

“What about you?”

“I don’t know nothin’ about healing. Besides…” He glanced toward the sound of shelling in the distance. “I have to get back to the fighting.”

“Of course,” Claire said. Suddenly, her agreement with Colonel Bonaire made more sense.  It wasn’t her house he wanted. It was her—her hands.

“Very well,” she said, glancing down at her dress. Her sleeves were rolled up and she wore her oldest dress—a green flowered gown that she had gotten years ago. Long before the war. She supposed if it were stained with blood, it wouldn’t be a great loss.

With one last apologetic glance at Grandpa, she followed the soldier behind the house to what looked like a war-zone itself already.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Mark.”

Tents and fires had sprouted up. Men lay everywhere—sprawled upon the grass and leaning against the oak trees. Men who looked to be nearing Grandpa’s age and men who looked to be no more than boys.

“Over here,” Mark urged. He stepped into a small tent and she followed. “This is my brother,” he told her.

Claire’s heart tripped with dread. The boy’s skin was ashen, his eyes closed. She glanced at Mark’s hopeful countenance.

“Where is he hurt?”

“He was shot,” Mark said, pulling the sheet from his brother.

Claire gasped at the sight of the bloody shoulder wound. Instinctively, she knew that this man would have easily healed with proper treatment.

“When was he shot?”

“Two days ago.”

Claire knelt next to the boy and began peeling back what was left of the tattered cloth of his shirt. “Mark, what is your brother’s name?”

“Tom.”

She nodded. “I need you to bring me some hot water and a clean cloth.”

She barely had the words out of her mouth before Mark had disappeared to do her bidding.

Her heart wept for this young boy, so brutally shot down and so carelessly tended.

Within minutes Mark returned with a bucket of steaming water. Apparently, the soldiers were keeping a fresh supply.

She dipped the cloth into the hot water, rang out the cloth, and began wiping the dried blood caked around Tom’s wound.

Silently, she prayed for him.

 

Tom was only the first of the many soldiers neglected. Only the first of many who could survive with basic care. Only the first of dozens she tended that day.

The sun had drifted behind the trees leaving them in a shadow of twilight when Claire heard someone calling her name.

Her hand paused over the forehead she soothed—this time with a cool cloth.

“Claire?”

She looked into her grandfather’s eyes, ringed with worry.

“You have to stop and eat something. You’ve been at this for hours.”

Claire leaned back and for the first time in hours looked at the man standing in front of her. There must have been a hundred soldiers lying around her yard. Most of them prone with injuries. The other dozen or so men hurried among them, carrying buckets of water, cloths, and plates of food. With a quick glance, she counted seven fires all with either pots over them or spits of food.

She wiped at her face with her wrist. “What time is it?” she asked, though it was rather obvious that it was near bedtime.

“Nearly eight,” Grandpa said. “Here.” He handed her a plate with a biscuit and an ear of corn. “You have to eat something.”

She nodded and took the plate from him. After wiping her hands on her soiled skirt, she picked up the biscuit and took a bite. Her stomach growled in rebellion. It had indeed been since breakfast that she ate.

“Thank you,” she said.

Grandpa kneeled next to her. “How did this happen?” he asked.

She shook her head and took another bite of biscuit before sitting flat on the ground. “I had no idea,” she said, looking around her again.

“You can’t do it all by yourself.”

“No,” she agreed. “But who else is here?”

Grandpa took a deep breath. “I’ll go into town tomorrow. See who can come out to help.”

She shook her head. “That trip would be too hard on you.”

“Claire, I can’t sit by while you…” he glanced around again. “While you single-handedly nurse the entire wounded Confederate army.”

She smiled. “I seriously doubt this is the entire wounded army.”

“Nonetheless…”

“Miss Whitman,” someone called. “Can you take a letter?”

Claire swallowed and looked at her grandfather. Another boy sending a last letter home. She would rather clean a hundred gunshot wounds than listen to a single heart-wrenching letter from a dying son to his mother.

Grandpa put his hand on her shoulder. “Now, taking a letter is something I can sit and do.”

“Very well,” she agreed, relieved. “That will help immensely.”

Claire watched her grandfather make his way to the dying soldier’s side, settle onto a stool and, taking a sheet of paper from an orderly, begin to write down the boy’s last words.

This war, indeed, touched everyone. And everyone had a part to play.

As she finished her supper, she glanced toward the road and wondered. Wondered how her handsome Yankee fared.

And prayed if he were wounded, that somewhere, someone was taking care of him.