Seated beside Jake in the wagon as it jostled and jolted over the rutted dirt road, Aletta was aware of every time their bodies touched. Even as she thanked God that Warren was alive—her husband was alive!—she could still feel Jake’s lips on hers, could feel the tender urgency in his kiss, and his strong arms holding her close.
Jake sat silent beside her on the bench seat, reins held taut, focus forward, expression cast in stone.
“Thank you,” she said softly, “for driving me to the hospital.”
He nodded, his jaw firming. “I’ll be with you. Every step of the way. If you want me to.”
The forced control in his voice brought tears to her eyes. Why had she allowed herself to grow so close to him? And so soon after Warren’s death? She’d known it wasn’t wise. And yet she’d done it anyway. And now she was reaping the bittersweet harvest of that decision.
As soon as they entered the hospital in Thompson’s Station, Aletta realized that though she’d thought she knew the horrors of war, she’d only known the outer hell. Men lined the hallway, some on cots, most on the wood floor, groaning in pain, crying, begging for medication, some whispering in ragged pleas for the comfort of their mothers. And, to a man, everyone she saw had lost an arm or a leg. Or both.
“It’s going to be all right,” Jake whispered beside her. “Let’s speak with the nurse over here.”
She nodded and followed, grateful to him for taking charge.
She hadn’t told Andrew where she was going, and it had helped that Mrs. McGavock had agreed with her decision. Best learn what the situation was first, then tell Andrew once she was better equipped to answer his questions. But one blessed fact was certain . . .
Her children would grow up knowing their father.
“This is Second Lieutenant Warren Prescott’s wife,” Jake said to the nurse. “Here to see her husband.”
The nurse checked a roster then nodded. “Come with me, please.”
Aletta followed, so grateful, so nervous, her heart breaking in two places at once, all while grieving over what Warren must have endured in recent weeks. Mindful of the soldiers lying in the corridor, she watched where she stepped.
The nurse opened the door to a dormitory-style room with beds lined up one after the other. The nurse led them down the narrow center aisle, and Aletta searched each bruised and bandaged face staring back at her, looking for his. The nurse stopped at the foot of a bed, checked the file hanging by a string, then nodded.
“Your husband was severely wounded, Mrs. Prescott. But he is going to live. The medical records state he hasn’t regained consciousness since being injured. For certain, he hasn’t been conscious since coming to us. Yet the doctors believe he will be very soon.”
Listening, Aletta moved to the side of the bed and looked at her husband in it. She tried not to cry but couldn’t help it. The bedcovers were pressed flat where his lower right leg had once been. Bandages covered his scalp and part of his face, and what wasn’t bandaged was marred with swollen cuts and bruises.
“Oftentimes after such trauma,” the nurse continued, her voice hushed, “the body needs rest, so the brain will command that it sleep.”
“Like a coma,” Aletta whispered, reaching for Warren’s hand while keenly aware of Jake watching from only feet away.
“Yes, very similar. Only, your husband isn’t in that deep of a sleep. He has been stirring. Perhaps the sound of your voice will bring him back. That’s often the case in such situations. I’ll be in the hallway tending other patients should you need anything.”
Aletta nodded, then looked back at Jake and drew strength from his steady gaze. “I’m so sorry,” she wanted to say to him. But couldn’t. Because part of her wasn’t sorry. This was her husband, the father of her children, her companion, her lover, her closest friend, her life lying in this bed.
“Talk to him,” Jake whispered, his own voice heavy with emotion.
Aletta leaned closer, her belly brushing against the bed. “Warren,” she whispered, gently squeezing his hand. “Wake up, my love. Wake up.”
He didn’t move.
She searched his bandaged face and placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Andrew is well and is looking forward to seeing you. And our child I’m carrying is doing well too.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I wrote you letters. Several, actually.” She laughed softly. “Did you—”
His eyes fluttered open, and her breath caught. She leaned even closer so that he could see her, mindful not to put any weight on his body. “I’m here,” she whispered. “And you’re going to be all right.”
He looked at her then, blinking as if trying to focus, and squeezed her hand tight. A sound rose from within his chest and a tear trailed down his temple. Aletta searched his gaze and felt a similar cry rising up from within her even as she squeezed his hand back. She couldn’t stem the tears and didn’t even try. She only looked into his eyes and nodded. And knew.
She looked back at Jake, not certain her voice would hold. “This isn’t my husband,” she managed, her lungs betraying her. “This is . . . Emmett Zachary.”