A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series (6 page)

She’d spent the evening going through the same process with his clothes as she had with Joe’s, burning everything, her grandmother using Grandpa Bumgartner’s old shirts and long underwear to clothe the men, a practice that would rob Gerta of every spare set of clothing she’d saved. Beth said nothing on the matter.

Joe moved his head, his open eyes staring dully at her. His tongue darted out to lick his lips.

“I just put some—”

Too late. Joe winced and pulled a face as the bitter taste of the balm on his lips permeated his mouth.

Beth couldn’t help the laugh that squeezed out. Joe’s mouth opened and his lips curved, as if he wanted to smile but it required more effort than he could muster. She smoothed her fingertips over his forehead. Still too warm, but not raging. Not yet, anyway.

“How do you feel?” His chest heaved on an inhale. She placed a hand on his arm to calm him. “We’re taking care of you. You’re safe.”

His hand worked its way up and pushed at the quilt that covered his chest. She helped him peel back the layer and saw the rash of bug bites along his upper chest and shoulders. He rubbed his palm along the red spots until she stopped the motion. “My grandmother says it is best for you not to scratch. Let me get some cornstarch.” She collected the items
she needed and returned, spreading out the crock of salve, the container of cornstarch, and a mug full of fresh water.

She smiled down at Joe and held out the cup of water. “Can you sit up?”

His hands were on top of the thin blanket now. He pressed them into the sides of the mattress to gain leverage, but a jolt of pain slashed his expression and drew a moan from his lips.

She splayed a hand on his chest and pressed. He relaxed back with another moan that vibrated through her. She lifted his head, able to feel his efforts as she held the cup to his lips and he drank, sipping at first, then taking long gulps that revealed the depth of his thirst.

When she lowered his head, he snatched a quick breath and gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Good.”

“I’ll get some more.” She refilled the mug three times before he seemed satisfied. As he drank, questions begged to be asked, but he seemed so weak. Each cup of water took more of an effort for him to lift his head to drink.

He closed his eyes as she began applying cornstarch to the visible bites. Her grandmother would have no qualms about applying it to all areas, but Beth’s sense of propriety could allow her to go no further with her ministrations.

She worked the powder along his neck, the bristles of his beard grating against her fingertips. His mouth worked and she waited for him to speak, but his eyes remained closed. Taking a clean cloth from the pile, she dipped it in cool water and sponged his forehead and cheeks. At least he had grown calmer, his mind more aware.

Finished, she put the lid on the salve and picked up the quilt pieces. Joe’s eyes opened as she took her seat, the quilt block in her hands. His eyes were tawny, a clear hazel that held more golden brown than green. Beautiful eyes. She wondered what he looked like healthy and whole, with meat on
his bones and laughter on his lips. Shallow lines ran parallel to each other along his forehead. His golden brown hair, cut close to his scalp by her grandmother, was beginning to grow back in. Confederate or not, he was a handsome man. She wondered if Jedidiah had ever held the hand of a Southern woman after she’d nursed his wounds.

Joe’s lips, thick with salve, curved upward. “Pretty.” Her gaze flashed to his as heat rolled upward from her neck and stained her cheeks. His eyes dipped to the quilt blocks and horror swept over her. The quilt colors. That was what he’d been referring to!

The blush burned hotter as she held up the squares for him to see and for her to hide behind. “It is a beautiful color scheme. My mother puts together some of the prettiest colors. She loves to use old scraps of clothing that mean something to her.” She was babbling, trying to cover the embarrassment of thinking, even for one second, that a man might think her pretty or go so far as to give her a compliment. Surely any compliment would fade once he saw the awkwardness of her steps.

“You. You’re pretty.”

Her hands fell to her lap, the soft drawl of his words captivating her. She swallowed hard, searching his face. “I . . .”

“Thank you for helping me.”

“I try to help where I can.” She shifted beneath his gaze and forced a smile. “Where are you from?”

“Carolina. North Caro . . .” The last syllable gave out on a sigh.

“Your family?”

He angled his face away. “Ben. My brother.”

Such distress weighted those words that she feared to ask him anything else. With all her being she wished she knew what had happened to his brother. She placed her hand on his arm. “You need to sleep . . .” She paused at the feel of his name
on her tongue, wondering how it would sound out loud. “Joe, you need sleep.”

His face contorted. “Too many memories. I dream about it. The war.”

Beneath her hand, she could feel the bunching of his muscles, the agitation building in him. She touched his arm. “We’ll talk later. You can tell me all about Ben. I’ll write a letter home for you.”

“Will you stay?”

“I’ll stay,” she said. Her heart twisted at the simple promise that kept her at his side, as if it should mean more than a nurse offering comfort to a wounded man.

She didn’t know if it was her voice or his exhaustion, but his chest heaved upward once, twice, his eyes closed, lashes a dark lightness against the frail skin beneath his eyes. She continued to stroke his arm and saw the tension ease from his jaw and lips before his breathing became steady and even.

Leaning back in the rocking chair, she considered the man before her and his frequent mention of Ben. Joe’s brother meant a great deal to him, just as Jedidiah meant so much to her. She eyed the beaten-up haversack in the corner, tempted to rifle through it for some indication of who the man in front of her was. Instead, she picked up her quilt blocks, slid the needle from its place, and continued on the seam. Only when she was finished did she spread them flat on her lap, the pattern laid out in her mind, along with the colors. A black background that fit the mood of the night. She touched the outermost triangle, a dark red, like the blood sure to be shed in the coming days, like that she had already witnessed. Gerta’s challenge haunted her. She wanted so much to run and hide, to be far from what was to come, but she couldn’t leave her grandmother here alone.

But she wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to.

September 16, 1862

Shells sang through the air, an orchestra of bass notes that rocked the house and made the floor shudder. Beth bolted upright. Breaking glass added to the commotion. Joe moaned and his eyes snapped open, filled with a resigned terror. She clasped his hand and held it as she ducked her head. She stuffed her free hand against her mouth to stifle the terrified screams that threatened. Only when things quieted did she dare raise her head. Joe lay quiet and tense, eyes shut tight, lips moving. She squeezed his hand.

His eyes popped open, a mirror for the fear that must have been spilling from hers. She scooted closer to the head of the bed and lowered her face to his side. His arm brushed against her back and settled there, his hand a solid comfort on her shoulder.

“You never get used to it. Not if you think too hard.”

She didn’t know if the words were meant to comfort or were just an observation. Footsteps alerted her. Gerta appeared in the wide doorway, tying on a clean apron. “You stay here. I’ll see if the soldier made it through the night.”

“No, Grandmama.” Beth lunged to her feet and checked the woman’s momentum with a hand to her arm, a protective
feeling toward the older woman trumping her own fear. Another shell struck. The floor rattled beneath their feet. Beth gathered her grandmother close as dust swirled around them. Gerta remained quiet, though her fingers gripped Beth tight until the vibrations settled.

Beth glanced at Joe, his hand gripped hard on the edge of the cot, knuckles white. “Stay with Joe, I’ll check on the other.”

“No.” Gerta sprang away from Beth’s grasp. “I have to check the wound. It’s easier if I go.” Gerta hesitated, hand on the doorknob. “Heat water. I’ll have to change the bandage on Joe’s shoulder next, and we don’t know what or who else we’ll see before the end of this.” She glanced at the window, which was still covered with a quilt.

“At least I’ll be able to see you from the kitchen.”

Gerta nodded and stretched up to yank the quilt down. Light spilled through the panes, slashing her grandmother’s face, revealing a wistful expression etched within the wrinkles and weathered skin. “It is good to feel the sunshine, it chases back the fears.” Despite the words, Gerta shuddered as if chilled by the rays of heat streaming through the glass. Beth joined her at the window, relishing the moment when her grandmother faced her and stroked Beth’s hair back from her face. A gesture so like her mother would make. A longing rose in her to retreat to her room and hold the quilt blocks against her cheek. Through their delicate, even stitches, she could absorb her mother’s love and concern for her.

A knock on the door behind them pushed Beth’s heart into her throat. She turned, half expecting to see Confederates, begging for more food, or demanding it. She relaxed upon seeing the dark face of Jim’s oldest daughter, Emma.

“Daddy sent me to you, Miz Bumgartner. Said he thought you could use the help, seeing as you gonna stay and all and the Pipers is leavin’ and don’t need me no more.”

As her father was free, so was Emma. Gerta welcomed the woman, offering her food and reminding her: “You’ll be called on to work with the Rebs while you’re here.”

“I’m not afraid. No use bein’ so, since I’m free. They’s nothing they can do to hurt me.”

“Have the Pipers left already?”

“It’s a mess over there. Rebs been tramping over ever’ inch of the house and orchard. General Longstreet had his supper there last night and told the family they should go.”

“He took over the house?”

Emma snorted. “The house, the barn. They’s everywhere.”

“Where are they going?” Beth asked.

“To Killiansburg Cave. Ramey done hollered out as they was leaving, begging for them to take her with them because she was so afraid to be left behind with them varmints taking hold of the house.”

Ramey—Beth made the connection—the Pipers’ housemaid. She would have reason to be jittery about being left behind with Graybacks, what with the rumor of them not treating slaves with kindness. “What about your pa?”

“He’s stayin’ at the house with Mr. Nisewander. He’s a stubborn one, that man. Said he wasn’t leaving his house no matter how close them Rebs is. Told Pa he could leave if’n he wanted.”

Jim wouldn’t leave the man no matter what, Beth knew. “We’d welcome your help. There’s a wounded man—”

Another shell whizzed through the air, the sound louder, closer. An explosion rocked the ground, a grinding sound ripped through the house. Emma screamed and covered her head with her apron. The front door blew open, slammed against the wall, and quaked on its hinges. Dust and debris streamed through the air, and grit burned across Beth’s cheeks as she huddled next to Emma.

Deafened by the sound, it didn’t occur to Beth that the sounds of screaming weren’t of another shell until she saw her grandmother rise and run toward Joe. Beth joined Gerta on the opposite side of the cot as she talked softly to the terrified man. His gaze caught hers, and she white-knuckled the edge of the cot as she lowered herself to her knees beside him. His hand fumbled for hers. Gerta stroked the man’s forehead, motioning for her to say something. But words would not come. She lowered her face to their clasped hands and let the tears flow.

She heard the rustle of skirts and knew Emma must have joined them as well.

“Spooked by it all,” Gerta’s voice was a whisper. “Must stir his memories, poor boy.”

“Spooks me and I’m not even a soldier.” Emma’s voice trembled.

Shame crept up Beth’s spine. She dried her eyes and sat back, aware of Joe’s stare. He did not release her hand, and she didn’t let go either until Gerta’s movement caught her eye. Her grandmother had lifted her apron against her head and when she released the white fabric it was smeared with blood.

“You’re hurt,” Beth said.

“The door caught me.”

Beth was on her feet, ripping a piece from her apron. Beneath her hands, Gerta’s skin felt papery soft, fragile. The bloody scrape was nothing more than superficial, but it offered something to focus on besides the noise and crashing around them.

Gerta patted her arm. “I’ll be fine. Stop fussing.”

Beth retreated a step. “The bleeding has stopped.”

“Then I’ll check on the other soldier like I should have done fifteen minutes ago.” She studied Joe, then Beth. “Talk to him. Get his mind off what he’s hearing.”

Beth reached to touch Joe’s arm, feeling his need. Though his eyes were closed, his breathing said he was awake and trying
to staunch his fears. Joe needed to be safe. “We should move him, Grandmama.”

Gerta pursed her lips and glanced over her shoulder. Emma had crept away from their huddle and was now using a broom to sweep the glass from the edges of the shattered window. “You’re right. We’ll take him to the cellar. The noise will be less there. Emma?”

With Emma’s strong shoulder on one side and Beth’s on the other, Joe sat up. She could feel the bones beneath her hands, and the heat from his body radiated. If his fever became worse, she might lose him. His body could not take much more abuse in its weakened state. His knees buckled after a few steps. Beth slipped her arm around his waist, meeting Emma’s arm as she did the same. The extra support steadied him as they inched along toward the door and outside.

“Take it slow, now,” Emma said.

His legs, Beth saw, matched the emaciation of the rest of his body and she doubted the man capable of more than a few steps.

“Be careful of that wound,” Gerta said. “I didn’t patch him up for you all to drop him and have him bleeding again.”

“Maybe,” Emma grunted, “we shoulda rolled him in a blanket and—”