Christine Dorsey Read online

  Together they dragged and pulled him into the sod barn. Once as they crossed the yard, the stranger opened his eyes. But they were dull from pain, and he only groaned before drifting back into unconsciousness.

  “Where?” Will was out of breath from carrying his share of the load, and so was Samantha. The man was heavy even though he seemed too thin. But then she guessed war had a way of doing that to people. Goodness knows, she and Will had gone hungry a time or two. And now with the garden ruined... Sam tried not to worry about that as she motioned toward an empty stall.

  When they first moved to Kansas, there were horses and mules to fill every space in the barn. Now there were just Pru and Hope, the mules; Lovey, the mare; and Faith, a moon-eyed cow. And now the stranger’s horse.

  Samantha dropped his arms. “I’ll muck out the stall and throw in some clean straw,” she said, wiping the dampness from her forehead with her sleeve. But Will had already started, and with a word of thanks, Sam collapsed back against the rough wall.

  The Rebel was bleeding again, and she felt a twinge of guilt. Unwarranted, Sam reminded herself. She should be thanking God things weren’t the other way around. She imagined the stranger would most likely have left her and Will bleeding in the dust. But that conclusion didn’t stop her from going back to the house for some clean linens.

  Thanks to the bushwhacker’s friends and their penchant for trampling clean wash, Samantha had to strip sheets off her bed to use for bandages.

  “Serve you right if I just let you bleed to death,” she mumbled, heading back to the barn. Will had put clean straw in the stall and together they spread out a blanket she brought. Then they maneuvered the wounded man onto it.

  “We’re going to have to get his jacket and shirt off so I can tend to his wound.” Easier said than done, Samantha thought a quarter hour later as she and Will struggled with the sleeves. She finally sent Will to fetch the shears.

  Cutting the hated gray uniform gave Samantha more satisfaction than she cared to admit. But slicing away the uniform didn’t change anything—there was still the raised CSA on his belt buckle.

  Besides, Samantha was too busy staring at the gaping hole in his upper left chest. She pressed a wad of linen against it and pushed. Blood seeped through the cloth and onto her fingers. But she kept up the pressure and in a few minutes it slowed. Motioning for Will to take her place, Sam wrapped a torn strip of sheeting around his arm and body, then stood.

  “Is that it?” Will looked up at her his eyes questioning.

  “I don’t know what else to do.”

  “But he doesn’t look good.”

  “Well, he’s been shot, Will.” Samantha softened her tone when she saw her brother’s expression. She’d become hard, and it wasn’t good for that to rub off on Will. Besides he was right, the Rebel didn’t look good at all. He’d gone pale beneath his sun-bronzed skin. “Why don’t you check his saddle for a blanket?” She’d already sacrificed enough of their bedding for this man. “I’ll try to get him to drink a little water.”

  But he couldn’t drink.

  As much as Samantha tried, the water simply rolled from his mouth, and she finally gave up. Perhaps letting him sleep was best. Will came back, leaving the door open enough for Samantha to see the dust motes dancing in the slice of sunshine. He carried a rolled blanket in one hand, and had saddlebags thrown over his shoulder.

  Samantha covered the stranger, and tossed the saddlebags in the corner. “Come on,” she urged when Will stood staring down at the man. “We’ve got lots to do.” Too much to worry about one Confederate soldier, she thought, even if he hadn’t been bent on hurting them.

  When she stepped into the brightness and saw again the destruction done to their small farm, she pushed any thought of compassion for the man in the barn from her mind. Or she would have if Will had let her.

  But he was full of questions, and her inability to answer a one of them didn’t stop him from asking. While they hauled water from the stream behind the house, he wondered aloud where the stranger came from.

  “I don’t know,” Samantha answered. “Probably someone from Missouri back from the war and too wild to pass up mischief. Hand me that bucket, Will.”

  Will watched his sister bend, scooping the water into the wooden-slatted pail. “He doesn’t look like them other ones.”

  “Those other ones,” Samantha corrected automatically, then wondered why she bothered. It wasn’t as if her schoolteacher mother, or minister father, would know how Will talked. Or anyone else for that matter. Too many things had changed for her to worry about Will’s speech, but she continued to correct—out of habit? “What are you talking about, Will?” Samantha asked when she realized what her brother had said rather than how he’d said it.

  “The stranger.” They trod the path to the house, stepping on some wild mint and releasing the pungent scent into the air. “He seems different from the others.”

  “Well, he’s not.” Maybe she’d thought the same thing when she’d looked into his eyes, but Will hadn’t seen that. Besides, Samantha wasn’t certain now it wasn’t a trick of the light. And she didn’t want Will making this man into some kind of hero or something. “He’s like all the others... mean and spiteful. And don’t you forget it!”

  “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean nothing.”

  “Anything. It’s all right. Oh, would you look at this mess.” They emptied the water into the wash pail and Samantha trudged through the downed sheets, picking them up, shaking off what muck she could, then sloshing them into the water. “We’re going to have to let them soak,” she sighed, shaving off slivers of lye soap. They were not just soiled, but torn, and Samantha mentally tallied how many evenings’ work it would take to stitch them back to the way they were two hours ago. That time would cost her money. Money she could have made sewing for one of the ladies in town.

  The garden wasn’t a complete loss, though it took the rest of the afternoon to restore it as best they could. By the time the sun dipped in the western sky amid a blaze of orange and red, Samantha’s back felt ready to break. She stood between the rows of pumpkins and leaned back, fighting tears that stung her eyes.

  “That’s about all we can do for today,” she said, nudging Will as he patted dirt around some squash roots. “Let’s get washed up and eat supper.”

  She wanted a bath more than anything, but thoughts of her aching muscles hauling more water, and work yet to do tonight, made Samantha settle for the wash bowl in her room.

  Uncovering cornbread and cold stewed apples, Samantha hoped Will wouldn’t complain about their simple meal. But she was just too tired, and too emotionally drained, to cook a meal.

  They ate by the light of a single lamp set on the hand-hewn table. Shadows danced across the uneven surface. Pa had fashioned the table from split logs when they first moved to Kansas. Samantha smiled, remembering how proud he’d been of it, not even noticing how it leaned to one side. But Pa was a dreamer, not a carpenter, or so Ma said as she managed to sneak the wedge of wood under the short table leg. And now they could stop eating off the wagon tail and move inside.

  They’d been so excited Samantha didn’t tell either of her parents how much she enjoyed taking meals in the fresh air. She even liked it after the long grueling trip from Massachusetts. Eating outside seemed like a picnic to a girl of twelve.

  Samantha sighed. How could she think anything about Kansas was a picnic?

  “Willy,” Samantha said. Her brother hadn’t complained about the cold meal, but he’d barely eaten a bite. Now she shook his shoulder, nudging him awake. He’d fallen asleep at the table. “Will, why don’t you go to bed.”

  “What? Oh, no, I’m awake.”

  Samantha suppressed a smile as her brother jumped to his feet, obviously embarrassed at being asleep during supper. He grabbed a hunk of cornbread, stuffing it into his mouth. “I’m not even tired,” Will assured her as he headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Samantha brushed crum
bs from the table into her hand.

  “Thought I’d go check on the stranger. See how he’s doing.”

  “Wait!” Samantha shook her head when she saw the expression on Will’s face. “I don’t want you going out there. I’ll do it.” How could she have forgotten about the man she shot? But Samantha knew she’d almost done just that. Without Will’s reminder, she’d probably have gone to bed without giving the stranger another thought.

  “Shucks, Sam, I go out to the barn all the time.”

  True enough. “But not when we have a dangerous man out there.”

  “Well, if he’s dangerous, I should—”

  “Stay here and clean up the dishes.” Samantha shoved a tin plate in her brother’s hands.

  “Hell’s bells, Sam, washing dishes is woman’s work.” The look his sister shot him made color rise in Will’s face, almost obscuring his freckles. He knew better than to curse in front of her, but shucks...

  Samantha handed Will a dish towel, deciding to say nothing of his slip into profanity. He already knew how she felt about it. “It’s true enough that most would think of cleaning as woman’s work. But then plowing is usually done by a man, and I’ve done my share of that. So maybe we shouldn’t be so concerned with which of us should do what and go with what’s expedient at the time.” She took a deep breath. “And right now, I think I’m the one to be checking on our visitor.” Samantha reached for the musket she’d left propped in the corner. “After all, I’m the one who shot him.”

  Will didn’t like it but reluctantly he sloshed the plate into cold dishwater before she closed the door behind her.

  The lantern she carried spilled a puddle of light on the packed earth in front of her, but it didn’t do much to dispel the blackness of the night. No moon, she thought, glancing up into the darkness. But lots and lots of stars. Tiny pinpricks of silver patterned the sky.

  Her mother had known their names. She’d told Samantha some of them, but those lessons were long since forgotten. At the time it didn’t seem a necessity to remember. Asking Ma was much easier.

  “But now she’s gone and I can’t remember the names of any of them,” Samantha mumbled, then hurried off toward the barn.

  One good thing. Landis Moore and his men hadn’t returned to search for the stranger. All day Samantha had expected to look up and see them riding toward her, demanding to know what happened to him. They wouldn’t take kindly to her shooting him. They’d probably...

  The noise from inside the barn startled Samantha. My God, she’d forgotten to tie him up, and now he was yelling and scolding, and Lord knew what else. Taking a deep breath Samantha raised the musket and used the barrel to prod open the door. The creaking noise didn’t interrupt the tirade from within.

  Samantha shifted, holding up the lantern and allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the barn. She wasn’t certain what she expected to see—a raving bushwhacker coming at her with the pitchfork maybe—but it wasn’t what was there.

  Not that the stranger wasn’t raving. But he was doing it from the stall where she’d put him, and he was writhing around in the straw. He’d tossed his blanket aside, and somehow managed to push the one she’d used to make his bed to the back of the stall.

  Delirious.

  The word popped into her head, and she knew that’s what he was. He kept yelling, calling out for a Private Jones, or James, Samantha couldn’t tell for sure. She edged toward the stall, keeping the gun ready even though its weight tugged at her arm. Tomorrow she’d bring the Rebel’s pistol instead.

  Now that the light from the lantern splashed over him, Samantha could see how awful the stranger looked. His skin was pasty white, and she knew it would be hot even before she touched him. Leaning the musket well out of his reach and hanging the lantern on the hook overhead, she bent over to confirm his fever.

  But just as her fingers grazed his cheek, he reached up and grabbed her wrist, pulling her to her knees in the straw beside him. Samantha screamed, trying to twist away, but his hand clamped tight, and his grip was like steel.

  “Let me go.” Samantha pried at his long fingers but he held her firm.

  “Stop it!” His words rang loud in her ears as he dragged her closer. “I don’t want to hurt you. God knows I don’t want to saw off your leg. God knows I don’t want to. God knows...”

  Saw off her leg? Samantha scurried to get as far from him as she could, but he still held her wrist fast and he didn’t seem inclined to let her move even an arm’s length from him. What kind of man was he to talk of cutting off her leg? Bile rose in her throat and she opened her mouth to scream again. Maybe Will would hear.

  Before she could make a sound, he yanked her across his body. His eyes were open, but Samantha didn’t think he saw her. But then she was so scared, how could she be certain of anything? All she knew was a primal need to escape him. But now he clutched her shoulder with his other hand, and pulled her even closer.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeated, and Samantha began to tremble. Was he going to talk about cutting off her leg again? How could he be wounded and still be so strong? “I never wanted to hurt any of you,” he continued. “I only wanted to help. Oh, God.”

  Samantha kicked and squirmed, pushing against his chest, but stopped suddenly when she heard the sob. It seemed to come from his soul, but it reached out and touched her heart. Samantha’s breathing came in harsh rasps, but she stopped struggling and looked at him. He turned his face to the side, but she could see the sheen of tears in his eyes. His sad, sad eyes.

  Then before she realized what she was doing, her hand splayed across his cheek. He was ranting about hurting people again, beseeching God to understand he only tried to help. Then he rolled his face into her palm. She could feel his hot breath on her skin, and her fingers curled.

  “Hush now. It’s all right. Everything is all right.” Her softly spoken words accomplished what all her struggles had failed. His face relaxed and he dropped her wrist. The hand on her shoulder seemed more caress than hold. She could move away from him with no trouble at all. Maybe that’s why she stayed pressed against him.

  “Lydia? Is that you, Lydia?” His voice now low and sensual, and before Samantha could answer him, he continued, “I knew you wouldn’t leave me, Lydia.”

  Samantha jerked her hand away, scrambling back against the rough wood of the stall. He thought she was somebody else, and suddenly it seemed wrong for her to be snuggled against this wounded stranger. Who was Lydia anyway? Whoever it was, this man wanted her. The moment Samantha pulled away, his voice became more frantic.

  “Lydia! Lydia!” He struggled to sit, falling back against the straw-covered planks with a thud that made Samantha suck in her breath. She wasn’t surprised to see fresh blood soak through the bandage. “Don’t leave me, Lydia. God, don’t leave me all alone.”

  “I won’t.”

  Samantha closed her eyes on the look of relief filling the stranger’s face. He quieted instantly, allowing her to pull the blanket over his bare chest. His skin scorched the back of her knuckles. He was so hot with fever.

  He was going to die if she didn’t do something.

  Samantha leaned back on her heels, studying him. She wasn’t sure why she pretended to be Lydia, but maybe it would help. Maybe he’d drink for Lydia.

  Standing, Samantha brushed straw from her skirt, only to have the deep timbre of his voice pull her back to his side. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered, and she bent closer.

  “I’ll be right back. You need to drink some water. I’m going to get it.”

  “Thirsty,” he mumbled, licking his dry lips.

  Grabbing up the lantern, Samantha ran for the house. She didn’t want Will worrying that she’d been so long. But he wasn’t in the parlor and no sound came from the loft where he slept. After climbing the ladder, Samantha saw him sprawled on his mattress, sound asleep.

  She plunked the ladle into the drinking bucket, grabbed it up, and hurried out the door. It wasn’t u
ntil she crossed half the yard that she realized she’d left the musket in the stall with the stranger. Grabbing up her skirt she ran, water sloshing onto her legs. But when she burst through the stable door, all was as she’d left it.

  Samantha pressed her hand to her rapidly beating heart, and sank down beside the stranger. He seemed asleep, but within moments he began ranting again about only wanting to help people. A touch of her hand quieted him. Hearing her say she was Lydia made him choke down water.

  She almost left him then. Lord knows she was tired enough to long for her bed, even if there were no sheets covering the sweet-grass mattress. But she couldn’t leave him. Every time she tried, Samantha decided to wipe his face with a damp rag just one more time.

  She wasn’t certain, but maybe his skin felt cooler though he still babbled on about sawing legs and arms, and for once Samantha was too tired to calm him. She sat back, hugging her knees, wondering what kind of man would have nightmares about such things, even when feverish.

  Arms and legs and blood... and sickness. Samantha leaned forward, listening intently to the words he mumbled. If she sieved through the gruesome details of his dream, one thought rang clear. He had tried to help.

  Samantha wasn’t sure when the thought occurred to her, but she dipped the linen in the pail and laid it on his forehead. “Are you a doctor?” she asked, leaning close to his ear.

  “Lydia?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  A smile softened the pain-etched planes of his face as he drifted off to sleep.

  “Now you’re quiet,” Samantha complained. She sat back on her heels, wondering. It didn’t make sense for him to be a doctor, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that his ranting had meant just that. But then why would he join Moore’s gang? “Doctor’s aren’t saints, for heavens sake,” Samantha mumbled to herself. But it still didn’t fit.

  “Who are you?” she whispered, but for now the stranger’s sleep seemed peaceful. And sleeping is what you should be doing, Samantha told herself as she leaned against the stall. But before she closed her eyes, her gaze snagged on the saddlebags she’d tossed in the corner of the stall.