An Outlaw in Wonderland (4 page)

He glanced up, saw her, and glanced back down. Her face heated, and she ducked her
head. Would they forever be uncomfortable around each other now? He was no doubt mortified
that he’d kissed his nurse and given the poor, plain girl ideas. And Annabeth? She
couldn’t stop thinking of what Moze had said last night.

Prove it.

“Beth,” Ethan began, and she winced.

Only Yankees shorten names.

Would Moze
ever
shut up?

“I’ll apologize fer me forwardness,
Miss
Phelan.”

His voice had gone cool. He’d seen her reaction and believed she was offended because
he’d overstepped. She wanted to assure him that he hadn’t, but it was probably for
the best if they returned to formalities.

“What would you like me to do, sir?”

“Back to ‘sir’ and ‘miss,’” he murmured, then gave a brisk nod. “Fresh dressing here—charcoal
and yeast.” He pointed. “Cool cloth there.” He indicated another man. “Watch this
one closely. The wound has swelled and gone red.”

“Erysipelas?”

He studied her. “Ye never cease to impress, Miss Phelan. Aye. If he progresses to
chills, yet he sweats, and his pulse is far too fast, find me.” That condition, known
as pyemia, followed the swelling and redness of erysipelas and was nearly always fatal.
She could tell Dr. Walsh was disturbed by it. Very few of his patients contracted
the disease.

“If that happens, sir, there isn’t anything to be done but hold his hand.”

He paused at the door. “As he’s my patient, I’d like to be the one holdin’ it.” He
left without looking back.

Annabeth did her best to keep the fellow at death’s door from stepping through, but
when the young man’s eyes rolled back and he began to jerk with violent paroxysms,
she waited at his side until he quieted; then she went to fetch Ethan. He wasn’t anywhere
in the building.

Seeing him that morning had unsettled her. Hearing him call her by the nickname she
at turns loved and loathed had brought Moze’s disturbing accusation to the forefront
of her mind. She didn’t believe Ethan was a spy any more in the light of day than
she had in the dark of night. But still . . .

If you’re so damn sure it isn’t him, it won’t hurt to prove it.

Had Moze known that planting the seed of doubt would make everything Ethan said or
did suspect? Probably. Moze was a spy, after all.

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t suspected him of it before. That she hadn’t made her
feel gullible. If a man she’d known all her life had fooled her, couldn’t one she’d
known only a little while do the same?

Annabeth stopped a steward. “Where’s Dr. Walsh?”

The white-haired fellow spread his one remaining hand. “If he ain’t here . . .” She
shook her head. “Try his quarters.” Her confused expression brought forth a huff.
“On this side of Georgia Hospital.”

Chimborazo was so large, it had been divided into five sections, each with its own
chief surgeon. In an attempt to impose order over the disorder, soldiers were assigned
a section based on their state of origin. The first section, where Annabeth and Ethan
worked, was known as Virginia Hospital. The other four were Georgia, North Carolina,
Alabama, and South Carolina. Annabeth had no idea what they did with patients from
Tennessee or Mississippi.

The steward sped away as glass broke in the infirmary. From the shouts, Annabeth deduced
her patient was again jerking and spasming uncontrollably. She had to search out the
good doctor wherever he might be before the end came and no further handholding was
required. That Ethan felt such devotion to his patients gave her a tight, warm feeling
in the center of her chest. None of the other doctors were half as dedicated.

Just outside the physicians’ ward, which appeared exactly the same as the surgery
ward—single story, long, and wide—she hesitated. Should she knock? Then it opened
and one of the doctors stepped out. He blinked to find her hovering. “Miss?”

“One of Dr. Walsh’s patients—”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Inside,” he said before he hurried on.

The air within was still and stifling; the windows did little to help since there
wasn’t any breeze. Cots stood in a double row from front to back. All lay unoccupied
save one.

“Sir?” she called. He didn’t move. “Dr. Walsh?” He muttered and turned over.

Asleep. She hated to wake him, but she had to.

Annabeth approached. As she leaned over, hand outstretched, he said, “I’ll see you
soon.”

With no accent at all.

D
r. Walsh!” Someone shook his shoulder.

“Mmm,” he murmured, and burrowed deeper into the feather tick.

Except the lovely, soft bed he’d been dreaming of no longer felt so soft. In truth,
it made a rickety squawk beneath him as a hand shook him again.

The scent of lavender and mint enveloped him, and he snatched the hand before it could
escape. He opened his eyes, smiling into hers.

“Doctor.” An odd expression darkened Annabeth’s gaze and put a crease between her
brows. Unease trickled down his spine, and he sat up, narrowly missing her chin with
his head.

She stepped back, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Your patient is worse.”

He stood, realized he’d taken off his boots, and sat again. “What happened?”

“Paroxysms.”

“Hell.” He stomped his heel into the right boot. When he glanced up, she was gone.

Moments later he entered the operating room as the man breathed his last. Neck wounds
usually resulted in death on the field. Very few ever reached Chimborazo. The only
injury more deadly was one to the head.

Still, his patient might have survived if he’d avoided pyemia, what Ethan referred
to in his own mind as poisoning of the blood. As far as he knew, there was no cure
once the condition took hold. Ethan believed his insistence on cleanliness was the
reason so few of his patients died of it, but some still did. Each one tore at him,
and though there was nothing he could do, he didn’t like for them to die alone. He
should have stayed here, but he’d been so damn tired.

He motioned for a steward. The quicker the dead were removed, the better. Not just
for morale but for hygiene.

Not wishing to watch the man being carted away—the sight always made him feel a failure—Ethan
turned and saw Annabeth. She laid her hand atop a pile of clothing, straightened a
set of boots, hung her head. From her pensiveness, if not the blood on the material,
he deduced the garments belonged to the deceased.

She glanced his way, then scurried off. He never should have kissed her. He’d ruined
everything.

At a loss—no new casualties, and all his other patients had been tended to already—Ethan
crossed to where she had stood. As was his habit, he slipped his fingers into the
pockets of the dead soldier’s shirt. Empty. Coat. Nothing. Trousers. The same. He
nearly left before he remembered the boots. Shoving his hand inside, he found a wad
of paper in one toe.

Perhaps the footwear had belonged to a soldier with bigger feet who’d died before
this one, his boots then confiscated. But if that were the case, why wasn’t there
paper in both toes?

Ethan unfurled the stuffing. A chill went over him; he crumpled the missive once more
and put it back. He set the boots where they’d been and strolled away as if he hadn’t
just read information that could put an end to the war.

•   •   •

Annabeth wanted to take back the note Moze had written the instant she shoved it into
the dead man’s boot. But Ethan arrived soon after, and she was afraid he’d see her
do so.

As the only thing worse than setting a trap for a spy was being caught in that trap
by
the spy, she left the missive behind and ran away. If Ethan was innocent, nothing
would come of this. The information would remain in the dead boy’s boot; no one would
arrive at the false rendezvous but Moze. Then she could say “I told you so” forever
and ever more. That might almost make a day of shaking hands and nervous sweat worth
it.

Later, she returned to the surgery ward and retrieved the dead soldier’s clothes and
boots. Before she consigned the blood-drenched clothing to the top of a pile of similar
items that would be burned, she searched the pockets for personal items, found none.

Another man could use the boots. She would turn them over to a steward as soon as
she—

Annabeth stuck her hand to the bottom and smiled when she found the crumpled paper
precisely where she’d left it.

•   •   •

Annabeth and Ethan returned to the easy rapport of their working relationship, pretending,
at least in each other’s presence, that their kiss had never happened.

When she slept, however, Annabeth dreamed of a lot more than his kiss. She couldn’t
stop herself. He was brilliant and beautiful, and when he looked at her as if she
were brilliant and beautiful, too, she couldn’t help but fall in love with him.

Annabeth learned something new daily, sometimes hourly. Word spread of the physician
at Chimborazo who saved more lives than he lost. Officers began to request his care.
Soldiers arrived on stretchers with his name pinned to their bloody, torn uniforms.

And the war raged on.

The night of the false rendezvous detailed in the note came and went with no sign
of Moses Farquhar. When Ethan asked her to accompany him on a picnic, she agreed with
such enthusiasm, she embarrassed herself.

What if Ethan were exactly who he appeared to be? What if she were?

As she dressed in the only garment she’d brought from home—here she wore dark clothes
like everyone else—a peach day dress with white sprigs dotted on the full skirt, she
chided herself. Certainly she’d planted the note, but that didn’t make her a spy.
Especially if no one had found it. Which meant no one had gone to the meeting and
nothing had happened. If it had, Moze would have arrived to arrest Ethan by now.

The clatter of a horse and buggy drew Annabeth to the door just as Ethan reined in.
Seeing him arrive so grandly, she asked, “Is this yours?”

He jumped to the ground and offered her a polite hand up. “The horse is, aye. The
buggy is a loan from a grateful patron.”

Ethan joined her and clucked to the horse, which did not appear at all comfortable
with the clattering carriage at its heels. Nevertheless, the animal drew them away
from Chimborazo toward the flowing land beyond.

She’d often been dazzled by the beauty of the area that surrounded them. As Chimborazo
was located on an elevated plain, they could see ships in the river harbor. To the
west rose the spires of Richmond, and as they trotted east, once-lush farmlands surrounded
them.

The armies had moved away for a spell, ending the distant thunder of artillery. Annabeth
had become so accustomed to it that for the first few nights after the rattles and
booms faded, she could not sleep.

“What do you mean by patron?” she asked.

“One of the boys we saved was from Richmond.”

“A lot of them are.” They worked in Virginia Hospital and the Confederacy’s capital
contained a large population.

“Not all of them have General Carstairs fer a papa. He asked what he could do fer
me. I requested the use of a buggy. He sent one over directly.”

“And the picnic?”

Ethan cast her a sidelong glance. “I have sewed a stitch or two in a cook’s flesh.
One was most happy to offer a basket.”

They found the perfect spot in a grove of trees, a nearby brook providing water for
the horse and a gentle music, along with the wind through the leaves. As he spread
a blanket and she set out the food, they spoke of Chimborazo, of medicine and patients,
of things that to others would be both boring and inappropriate but to them was fascinating.

They ate cold chicken and corn bread, drank from the brook, then lay on the blanket
and watched the clouds float by. Annabeth had never been so content. Or so in love.

“You told me I shouldn’t apologize fer kissing ye.” His fingers curled around hers.
“And I can’t.”

When he turned his head, she could not help but turn hers. Their noses nearly brushed.
The blue of the sky caused his gray eyes to shimmer like a lake at dawn.

“I can’t,” he continued, “because all I want is to kiss ye again.”

The next instant, she was in his arms. He tasted of sweet bread and cool water, with
a hint of darkness just beneath. She wanted that darkness; she reached for it with
her tongue, stroked his teeth, and he moaned.

He rose above her, and the sun winked out. She didn’t mind. It had been so bright,
she felt blinded. Or perhaps he had merely blinded her. She wanted to pull him closer,
have him lay that long, lean body over hers and do things she’d only heard about in
whispers.

He set his fingers in her hair; her pins sprinkled around them like hail; he rained
kisses along her chin and jaw, pressed his lips to her neck, traced his tongue to
the base of her bodice and tugged on it with his teeth.

Her breasts seemed to swell against her corset. She wriggled, then gasped as her nipples
scraped the tight, hard material. She wanted his hands on her. His mouth. His tongue
and teeth. She curled her palms around his neck and pulled him closer.

Sensations she’d never experienced, never imagined, rolled over and through her. Her
skin was so sensitive, her stomach a jittery mess. And lower, where her legs met,
she throbbed so uncomfortably, she couldn’t help but arch and squirm.

The unexpected movement brushed his fingers against one breast. Before he could jerk
away, she brought it back, laid his palm over the tingling swell. His thumb slid over
the nipple, and her entire body tightened as her breath caught in her throat.

“Please,” she whispered, and he pulled away, sitting up, moving back, not touching
her any more at all.

Annabeth lay there staring at the sky and wishing it would fall on her so she wouldn’t
have to look at him. How mortifying to beg for more and have him deny her.

“Beth,” he said, and her teeth ground together. “We can’t.”

“Why?”

His short, sharp exhale held a tinge of amusement.

Fury consumed her and she sat up, too. “You think I’m a child. That I don’t know what
I want.”

“Ye are a child, and ye have no idea what yer askin’ of me.”

“Teach me.” His gaze flicked to hers, then away. “Someone has to.”

“Yer husband.”

“Couldn’t you—”

“No,” he snapped, and she flinched. At least he didn’t see her reaction, because he
still couldn’t meet her eyes. “The war, Beth. Our part in it. My part. I can’t marry
ye when I’m—” He paused. “I can’t.”

“You’re already married.”

“No!” His head jerked up. “It’s not that attall.”

“You’re betrothed.”

“No,” he repeated.

“Then why? I thought you cared about me.”

He didn’t answer, and she began to doubt her own words. Why would he care for her?
She was huge, gangling, red haired, and freckled. He was . . . Ethan—so brilliant
and beautiful, he dazzled. She’d thought because they shared so much—medicine, helping
others, the cause—that it might be enough. But it wasn’t.

Annabeth began to put what was left of the food into the basket. It gave her something
to do other than weep.

“I do care,” he murmured. She ignored him. He was suddenly at her side, his hand on
her wrist. “Look at me.”

She shook her head. If she looked at him, she’d see all that she wanted and could
never, ever have.

“I love ye, lass.”

A sob stuck in her throat, choking her.

“I do! And because I do, I won’t take yer virginity on a blanket beneath the sun while
the war yet rages.”

“What if the war never ends?”

“It will.” He took a long breath and tangled their fingers together. “I’d do anything
to make this war stop.”

Annabeth felt a tingle of unease. However, wouldn’t
she
do anything to make the war end? So boys would stop dying, armies would stop marching,
she could find her brother, then marry and start a new life.

Ethan was right. Until the war ended, nothing else could begin.

She shut the top on the basket. “We should get back.”

“I’m—”

“Shh.” Annabeth laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t.”

Apologizing for touching her only made her feel as if they’d done something wrong,
when in truth, nothing had ever felt so right.

He carried the basket to the buggy, helped her onto the seat, then clucked to the
horse, but they did not head toward Richmond.

“There’s a . . . a patient,” he said in answer to her curious glance. “He lives up
the road a pace.” He lifted his chin to indicate a thicker area of trees. “I haven’t
seen him for a spell, and I’d like to make sure he’s all right, if ye don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

No doubt her mother would say that traveling farther from Chimborazo and deeper into
unknown territory with a man who was more mysterious than open was a fool’s errand.
But Annabeth had already established her penchant for foolishness where Ethan Walsh
was concerned.

The trees thinned; a clearing appeared, with a dilapidated cabin to the rear of an
equally decrepit barn. Nothing moved but the wind. Something wasn’t right. Annabeth
knew it even before Ethan climbed from the buggy, lifting a hand to keep her in the
seat.

He strode to the door. “Mikey?” he called in a tight, tense voice. Opening it, he
stepped within.

Annabeth’s gaze wandered to what was left of the barn. Age and rain, wind and sun
had caused much of the roof to collapse; the structure possessed only three remaining
walls, and they swayed so badly, Annabeth thought one or more would give way soon.

Ethan backed out of the cabin. The stiff set of his shoulders made her reach for the
rifle under the seat.

As he emerged from the shadows and into the sun, a rifle seemed to sprout from his
chest. The other end was held by a tall, broad man with tangled, dirty hair that obscured
much of his face. He had the look of a deserter, desperate and dangerous with little
left to lose. Annabeth straightened, keeping her own gun out of sight beneath her
skirts.

“You come to see the gigantour who lives here?” the man asked.

“He’s my patient.”

“He’s a spy.”

Annabeth blinked. The person who lived here was a spy? Did that mean Ethan wasn’t?
Perhaps Moze had gotten confused. Although, how would a fellow who lived in the woods
discover information from injured soldiers at Chimborazo?