A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series (18 page)

“If we stay and they capture you . . .”

“I can’t desert.” He felt the weight of what the man was asking him to do. Afraid to go, reluctant to stay. Returning was his only hope to make sense of what had happened to Ben. His
injury would grant him a discharge and he could search for answers from there.

“Her or the war?”

It took him a minute to remember what he’d said before Jim’s question. The truth was he couldn’t desert her either. She had helped him when he needed it most. Sacrificed for him. And he loved her . . .

“You are too weak to march.”

“They’d probably shove me in the back of a medical wagon.” And he would bump along, miserable, waiting for a surgeon to tell him it was better for his arm to come off completely. He clenched his right hand, feeling the tendons contract, the muscles move. The numbness had worn off, or maybe it was just a trick of his mind.

“You must work your arm and shoulder in order for it to gain strength.”

Lost among thousands of wounded vying for the attention of a doctor or assistant, nurse or volunteer. He would be left to languish as his body continued to knit and heal. Deprived of the soft attention and kindness of Beth . . .

“Help me get her to safety and we’ll get you back across the Potomac.”

Joe stared hard at the black man. Jim would not beg, and he wanted to care for Beth as she’d cared for him.

The night sounds rolled through his mind, tempting, luring, prodding him to do what was right and honorable. And even as he stood there, Beth’s rare smile dangled in his mind like meat to a starving dog.

“We do not have time to waste.”

He met Jim’s gaze, saw the white of his eyes flash as the man’s gaze drifted toward Sharpsburg and the muted sounds of the retreating Rebs. “Then we’d better hurry.”

“I can walk,” Beth insisted.

“Let Jim carry you. You were limping pretty bad,” Joe urged. “We’ll make better time.”

“You can barely walk yourself.”

It was true, but the challenge made him straighten and gulp the air his starved lungs demanded while ignoring the sear of pain radiating from his shoulder, through his back and into his neck. He felt Jim’s eyes on him and knew the man also had concerns. If anyone slowed them down it would be him. Part of Joe wondered why the black man had thought it a good idea for him to go with them. He should have thought it through more. He had been manipulated and he knew it. Now. For all Jim’s words about him not being able to handle the march, the black man would have known he also wouldn’t have been able to traverse the countryside in his weakened state.

“It’s not far now,” Jim assured. “You and Miss Beth can ride.”

He tilted his head to study the man. Jim had something planned. Must have been the fruits of all the black man’s ventures out by himself in the last two days.

Joe forced himself to pick up his pace, following the big black man, aware of the way Beth’s head bobbed with Jim’s every step. She glanced at him over Jim’s shoulder and Joe squeezed out a smile.

“Jim. Stop.”

The black man whirled with her. She twisted and he finally let her down. Beth came to him, and he wondered if his expression had given away the fire shooting from his shoulder that made it so hard for him to focus enough to place one foot in front of the other.

“He can’t go farther.” Her hands framed his face. “You’re burning up again.”

He felt miserable, her hands cool. He didn’t want her to ever let go. His arm went around her waist and drew her close. He just needed someone to lean on. She gasped and he was aware of the impropriety of his action but couldn’t care.

“Jim?”

The big man took a step closer and crouched as if to lift him. Joe put out a hand, determined to stop the man’s action. “I’ll be fine.”

It was as if Jim didn’t hear or the words had never made it past his mind. He was lifted, flung over Jim’s shoulder, the blood rushing to his head.

“Someone’s coming,” Jim’s voice held urgency. “Straight ahead.”

They bumped along, Jim’s steps knifing pain into his shoulder, up his neck, into his head. It was no time to demand to be let down. No time to be weak. He hated it. Needed to be able to walk. Protect Beth and Jim from whatever threat dogged their heels. Instead he felt vague and weak. He missed Beth’s cool hands. The solidity of a floor beneath him.

“Jim?” There was a note of surprise in Beth’s voice.

“Hurry,” Jim urged.

He thought he heard the pound of footsteps, the crush of twigs and leaves. They’d stuck to the woods at Jim’s urging. The black man’s pace picked up until Joe’s pain compounded and squeezed his consciousness to a fine point. Then Jim stopped. He felt himself falling, lifted, lowered to the hard surface of a wagon bed and covered with something. He squinted through the darkness. Heard whispers and didn’t recognize a new voice.

Jim’s face loomed over him. “Stay quiet and still, Mister Joe. You’ll be fine.”

He tried to lift his hand, to sit up. Beth’s voice whispered against his ear. “Please, Joe. Keep still.”

He did then. Rested. With each beat of his heart, the pain lessened and his head cleared. He could see nothing and knew he was in a confined space. He listened hard. Heard a horse’s low snuffle.

“They went that way,” It was the new voice. “Potomac not far from here. Robbed us of the bread we’d taken in to Sharpsburg for the boys. Thought they was gonna take our horse but they must have heard you coming and skedaddled.”

“Strange time for you to be traveling.” This voice was formal, refined.

“There’s another wagon behind us. Coming down from Mercersville with apples and corn, flour, some cider. The women got some quilts together, too.”

“What about you?”

“This here is my brother. This here is the woman he works for. They’s from Sharpsburg. Been nursing the wounded since the battle up on the mountain.”

“She just lost her grandmother.” Jim’s voice.

He heard a muffled weeping and knew it was Beth. Whether she was acting or not, her timing was impeccable.

The wagon lurched, then began a soft rocking. They were on the road. He closed his eyes and tried to keep still. The heat became unbearable and he longed for the feel of night air against his cheeks.

Jim slid Joe from his confines in what seemed like mere minutes later. Night had passed into predawn, the silver light in the east stretching across the sky. Even that dim light made him blink. His head felt cottony. It was hard to think. His whole body ached and he wanted nothing more than to sleep.

“Joe?”

He tried a smile and failed.

“He’s burning up. Carry him inside, Jim. Mama will tell you where to put him.”

So he was at the home of Beth’s parents. It made sense though—Beth’s loss, the overwhelming circumstances present in Sharpsburg, and Gerta’s death. She would be safe here, as would he. The knot of fear in his belly dissolved and he relaxed as hands and voices became muffled sounds. He was sinking into oblivion and he didn’t care.

He woke to soft fingers and the bright light of day. He expected Beth, but saw a version of her twenty-five years into the future.

The woman twisted a cloth and lay it along his forehead. “You must drink as much as possible and eat.” She paused and smiled. “I am Anya Bumgartner.”

Gray threaded the woman’s dark hair. Her soft smile and quiet voice soothed him. She hadn’t asked one question of him and he wondered if Beth had told her his true identity or if they would be forced to lie. Looking into the woman’s face, he thought it might be best to stick with the truth. She seemed a no-nonsense type woman. Or maybe every mother appeared that way. It brought a rush of warmth to his chest. His mother had been able to read him and his brother every time a lie crossed their lips, resulting in a frown that was at once amused and disappointed. He’d hated that smile because it always poked the lie deeper into his conscience.

“I’m Joe.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Already she didn’t trust him, though her smile didn’t falter. He swallowed. “Where is Beth? Jim?”

“Jim is helping load supplies. Beth is sleeping.”

He wanted to ask how she felt about having a Rebel soldier to take care of. Did it disgust her? If her son fought for the Union, surely her feelings would be torn by his presence.

“I should help him.”

She tilted her head. “Rest. Get well. Then Jim will help you cross the Potomac.”

So she did know.

“I-I’m sorry,” he muttered, not understanding his compulsion to apologize.

Her gaze swept over his face, his hair, his arms and chest. “Jim is right. You would not have made the march. It was best for you to stay behind.”

He turned his face away. “He should have left me in Sharpsburg.”

“They care for you.”

He turned his head, and felt the softness of a pillow cradling his head and neck, nuzzling his cheek. The mattress on
which he lay was soft, the linens clean and sun-fresh. A wave of despair swept him and he longed for home again, more grieved at the knowledge that the home would be empty. His chest was bare and a fresh bandage had been applied. He plucked at the linen, taut against his skin and considered her words. “I wanted to go back.”

“Jim needed you to see Beth to safety. I am grateful for your choice.”

He would not argue, though her gratefulness seemed ludicrous in light of the fact he had to be carried most of the way, then hidden the rest of the journey.

“Jim says you are a man of honor. He did not want you to become a prisoner.” She shuddered, a light shaking of her shoulders that nevertheless did much to bear out her impression of the prison he most certainly would have been sent to. No doubt she feared not just for him, but for the likelihood of her own son being taken prisoner.

A whisper of movement caught his attention and drew his gaze to Beth. She’d washed her face, pink from the scrubbing, damp tendrils of hair swept back into a neat knot that allowed some of the longer pieces to brush her shoulders.

“Good morning,” she said as she limped forward. He saw her fresh dress and the blocks of the quilt in her hand. She spread the blocks on the bed and for a moment, mother and daughter were lost in some unspoken conversation that put a satisfied gleam in Anya’s eyes.

“All I could think of was hope,” she addressed her mother.

“You see hope now where you saw none before.”

Joe didn’t know what to make of the conversation and was rescued when Anya rose and nodded toward him. “Take care of Joe while I get breakfast.”

“I can help,” Beth was quick to reply.

“Rest, Bethie.” Anya’s hand came down on her shoulder. “Joe needs you.”

Beth traced the uneven stitches of the quilt blocks she’d joined together over the last few days. Such a whirlwind of events that all led up to losing Gerta. Everything had felt so black and dull just hours before, yet, today, so far from the horrors of war, snug in the safety of the familiar, she felt like the bright spot on the quilt might not be so far away any more. God was as close as her prayers.

And then there was Joe. She raised her gaze to his and felt the weight of her mother’s parting words;
Joe needs you
. His fever had risen. He remained weak, but under the watchful gaze of his green eyes, something else demanded attention. He was telling her something. The press of his hand on hers and the tangle of their fingers.

She broke her gaze and glanced out the window. He was only a man whom Jim revered because of his compassion toward the blacks whose lives he had saved. It wouldn’t have bothered her one way or the other if he had traipsed along after the retreating Rebs. But even as the words rolled through her mind she knew they weren’t true. Joe was more than a Rebel. He’d been a refuge to her during the height of the battle. He had shared in the worry and fear and he had been there in the darkest of night.

“You must feel better.”

“I do.” His drawl seemed more pronounced, less hateful than those first days when his few words were weighted with the reminder that she was working over the enemy. She withdrew her hand as the blush crept into her cheeks.

She reached to spread the quilt blocks and wondered if she would ever find the heart to finish the quilt. Those five blocks, bound together in the darkest of days, encapsulated the roll of every emotion and feeling she’d experienced in the last week. They were her symbol of victory.