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  “Thank you, ma’am. For hearin’ me. If you hadn’t come out here today—” He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to.

  On a whim, Lizzie leaned down and kissed his forehead, emotion blurring her vision. “Thank you for your courage and your bravery.”

  Weary beyond anything she could remember, she continued toward the western flank, one foot in front of the other, searching the faces and stopping twice—heart in her throat—to turn over the bodies of two particular soldiers. From the back, they had looked so much like Towny. When she spotted Dr. Phillips up ahead tending the wounded, she knew she was getting close to where Tucker’s Brigade had fought.

  But it was the soldier he was tending, the one leaned up against hastily dug earthworks, who truly captured her attention—and caused her to quicken her pace.

  CHAPTER 11

  When the soldier turned and looked her way, Lizzie knew. “Towny!” She hurried as fast as she could, thrilled when she saw that he could stand, and even more so when he closed the short distance between them.

  “Lizzie!” He wrapped her in a hug as familiar as home and as comforting as a feather bed come winter, then quickly drew back. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I’m looking for you! I didn’t know until this morning that your brigade was called back to fight.” She looked down at the bandage on his arm. “Are you all right?”

  He shrugged in typical Towny fashion. “Bullet passed straight through. The doc over there fixed me right up.”

  “Dr. Phillips,” she said, looking beyond him to where the doctor stood.

  Towny glanced between them. “You two know each other?”

  “Indeed we do.” Dr. Phillips nodded. “We’ve become rather well acquainted over the past few hours. I’m with Loring’s Division. Loring’s wounded are being cared for at Carnton, and the McGavocks have graciously been helping tend the injured. Miss Clouston has been assisting me in surgery. And doing very well, I might add.”

  Towny looked down at her, his expression a mixture of pride and regret. “I’m sorry the war’s come to Carnton’s door. But I’m not surprised at Miss Clouston’s abilities, Dr. Phillips. Or the McGavocks’ generosity. I’ve grown up knowing both for as long as I can remember.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of Lizzie’s head.

  Lizzie caught the somewhat curious look the doctor gave her as he began gathering his instruments. She started to explain that Towny was her fiancé, but somehow the moment and setting didn’t seem quite right.

  “Take care of that arm, Lieutenant.” Dr. Phillips gestured. “It needs time to heal. And again, I admire you for staying with your men last night. I’m sorry so many were lost.”

  Towny’s expression sobered. “I am too, Doc. Thanks for stitching me up.”

  Once Dr. Phillips was out of earshot, Lizzie peered up. “I’m so grateful you’re alive, Towny.”

  “Me too.” He stared out across the field. “For a while there last night, I wasn’t so sure I was going to be. It was . . .” He blew out a breath, his chin trembling. The haunting descriptions Captain Jones had shared with her that morning were clearly written in the lines of Towny’s face.

  It had been almost a year since they’d seen each other last, but he looked considerably older, and the customary sparkle in his eyes had dulled. How very much war stole from people. And not only in the cost of lives, though that was tragic enough. All the lost years that could have been spent together, the innocence of children shattered, the children who would never be born, the deep scars that battle left on the land.

  He sniffed, then looked over at her. “How are you, Lizzie? I mean . . . beyond the last day or so.”

  “I’m well enough. Weary at present. But well.”

  “And your folks?”

  “They’ve been well too. I’m going by their house on the way home to check on them, and to let them know I’m all right. I’ll likely stop by the Carters’ later and check on them too. They’d all more than welcome a visit from you if you’re able to come along.”

  He glanced away again. “I’d welcome that, but I need to stay and help bury the men from my regiment. We’re going to start here soon enough.” He gestured behind him to a small group of men seated around a fire, every one of them bandaged up and beaten down.

  “Of course.” She nodded. “I could stay with you and—”

  He shook his head. “As good as it is to see you again—and it is—it’s hard to see you here. It’s not right for you to be here.”

  She wanted to tell him that there was no protecting her from the war. Not anymore. That when men decided to take up arms, they thrust every woman and child into the fray as well. Different battlefronts, most certainly. But a battlefield all the same. Yet she knew that wasn’t what he needed to hear.

  He took hold of her hand. “I’ve thought of you so much during these last months, Lizzie Beth. You’re what’s kept me going. I’m so eager to get back here. To start our life together as man and wife.”

  He intertwined his fingers with hers, and Lizzie stared at their clasped hands, waiting to feel something more than the warmth of friendship. Especially when he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it. She definitely felt something different then, but it was the opposite of what she should have felt. An emotion more disconcerting than moving. She recalled the intimate turn her thoughts had taken when she’d recently been watching Captain Jones, and that recollection only fed the seed of doubt taking deeper root inside her.

  She realized Towny was watching her, waiting, and she knew she needed to say something. “I’ve missed you too. And I’m so glad you’re all right.” True statements, both of them. Yet judging by the longing in his gaze, it wasn’t what he’d hoped to hear.

  “Are you okay, Lizzie? Are . . . we okay?”

  “Of course,” she said hurriedly, the uncertainty in his expression too much to bear. She worked to lighten her voice. “Will I see you again before you leave?”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll do my best to call on Carnton before we pull out.”

  She noticed it then, the scarf around his neck, the one she’d knit for him the past Christmas. She gave it a tug. “I see you’re still wearing it.”

  He looked down and smiled. “I’ve hardly taken it off since you gave it to me. It’s like carrying a piece of you with me everywhere I go.”

  The silence stretched between them, and as he looked at her she sensed an ocean of words wanting to spill out from him. Yet she hoped he would stem the tide. Because once they were let loose, the words wouldn’t ebb quickly. And this was not the place or time.

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. And to her surprise, he hugged her tight again. The way he’d held her the day he’d buried his sweet mother all those years ago. Like she was the last thing he had on earth.

  “I love you, Lizzie.”

  Warmth sprang to her eyes. “I love you too, Towny.”

  He pressed a firm kiss to her forehead, then walked back to join the other men.

  Gathering her emotions, Lizzie picked her way north across the field in the direction of town, hopeful of finding more wounded men among the dead. But with each step she took, that hope drained away.

  Up ahead, still some distance away, lay the Federal breastworks Captain Jones had told her about. The formations were exactly as he had described. Well built, seemingly impenetrable from this perspective. At least three feet wide in some places and at least that many feet tall, if not more. How could anyone approach that barrier with guns flashing and cannons firing from behind and hold any hope of living? She paused for a moment and looked behind her to the south. Such a wide-open field. No place to hide. So vulnerable. Exposed. She briefly closed her eyes, still able to hear the crack of rifle fire and the explosions of cannons. And standing here now in the midst of the destruction, she could not envision charging across this valley toward an army entrenched behind those walls. The mere imagining sent a shudder through her.

  “Ma’am?” />
  Startled, Lizzie turned to see Lieutenant O’Brien approaching. She hoped he didn’t ask for his handkerchief back. She’d lost it somewhere along the way. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “I know you got a mind of your own, ma’am, and you can do as you please. But I’d feel wrong within myself if I didn’t warn you away from going any closer to the Federal line. There ain’t much left of the men who got that far.”

  Lizzie swallowed hard. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll heed your counsel. And am grateful for it.”

  Changing course, she headed due east, intent on taking the long way around to town, when she saw a soldier in the distance, sitting astride a horse. The man was full-bearded with a long, tawny mustache, and if her vision wasn’t playing tricks on her, he was absent a leg. He had an air about him too. Melancholy, without doubt. But also contemplative.

  “Lieutenant.” She glanced back. “Who is that man? On the horse?”

  O’Brien gave her an odd look. “That’d be General John Bell Hood, ma’am. Commander of the Army of Tennessee. Or what’s left of it.”

  Lizzie felt surprise register in her expression. The lieutenant must have seen it too, because he nodded.

  “Rumor is he told General Cheatham he’d rather fight the enemy where they’d been fortifying for eight hours, instead of Nashville, where they’d been fortifying for years.” O’Brien let loose a stream of tobacco juice. “Little good that did him.”

  He walked on, and Lizzie slowly looked back at General Hood. And though she hadn’t taken a single step, the knowledge O’Brien had given her changed her view. She continued on, General Hood not far from her path. He continued to stare across the fields as though she were not even there. Some might call her twisted, but she wanted to see close up the kind of man who would send twenty thousand soldiers across an open field to almost certain death. And if not to death, to hellish rage and mutilation. That didn’t feel like war to her. That felt like something very different. And very wrong.

  She passed him, half expecting him to look her way. But he didn’t. And though she couldn’t be certain, she thought she saw his face damp with tears. Yet no amount of tears could right this kind of wrong. But—she paused and looked back across the field—how could anyone in their right mind view this cauldron of inconceivable fury and call it right? Much less worth it.

  Roland felt like he’d been dragged by a horse over rough terrain for twenty miles. Every part of him hurt. His head throbbed. And he wondered, not for the first time, if he’d done the right thing in insisting the doctor allow him to keep his leg.

  “Captain Jones, how may I make things more comfortable for you, sir?” Sister Catherine Margaret bent over him.

  “Well, Sister . . .” He grimaced. “Unless you have a full flask hidden somewhere in that habit of yours, I’m guessing not much.”

  That earned him a grin, as he’d thought it would.

  She made a tsking sound. “If only you hadn’t stipulated ‘full,’ Captain Jones, I might have been able to comply.”

  Roland managed a slight smile. Just what he needed. A nun with a sense of humor.

  Sister Catherine Margaret disappeared from view, then returned with a bottle of laudanum. He gratefully accepted the medicine and the glass of water to wash it down, then closed his eyes and willed himself to think of home. Or what used to be home.

  But instead of the gently rolling hills of Yalobusha, Mississippi, and the house he’d built for Weet and Lena, other images crowded in—the barrage of rifle fire, grapeshot cutting his legs to pieces, the deathly whistle of a cannonball right before it—

  Roland opened his eyes wide, preferring the company of pain to being forced back into that nightmare again. A frontal assault over a near two-mile open expanse before a well-armed entrenchment. He’d questioned General Hood’s orders as soon as they’d come down. Same as he had in Atlanta. Not to the commander’s face. Hood had been holed up on Winstead Hill with his senior officers. So Roland found General Cheatham, who’d also been studying the Federal Army’s position, and shared his concerns with him.

  “I don’t like the looks of this fight either, Captain Jones. They have an excellent position and are well fortified.” Cheatham had mounted his horse and ridden off with the intention of conveying those opinions to General Hood, to try to dissuade him. But Hood’s orders remained unchanged.

  Roland made an effort to set the thoughts aside, having learned that little good came from rehashing what couldn’t be changed. Sister Catherine Margaret or one of the other nuns had closed the windows in the room, but the drapes remained open, and he could see it was getting dark outside.

  His shoulder muscles ached, and he longed to shift positions on the floor, but he didn’t dare, remembering the outcome of his last attempt. Maybe once the laudanum took effect again, he could manage it. At least his fever had broken. That was something. That portion of early morning was hazy to him, but he did remember seeing Miss Clouston hovering over him, pressing cold cloths to his face and neck, hearing her voice from what felt like a long distance away. He’d instinctively reached out and tried to grasp her hand, but she’d been just beyond his reach.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and he looked toward the door, hoping to see her. But it was the older Negro woman who entered the room, carrying a wicker basket on her arm. He caught the scent of freshly baked bread, and his hopes rose even as his stomach rumbled.

  What was the woman’s name? Miss Clouston had used it that morning when the two women had spoken at the door. He could almost remember it.

  She made her way to his side of the room and leaned down. “Care for a hoecake, sir? They’re warm from the stove and slathered with butter.”

  “I’d be much obliged . . . Tempy.”

  The surprise on her face matched his own at his memory. She smiled and pressed not one but two warm hoecakes into the palm of his left hand. He ate the cakes stacked together so as not to draw attention to her generosity and closed his eyes as he chewed. The cornbread tasted like home, comfort, and Sunday mornings. And bacon. She must fry hers in bacon grease like his own dear mother did.

  He needed to write to his mother and sisters at first opportunity. Tell them what had happened and that he was going to be all right. At least, he thought he was. He also wanted to ask them to send George. If ever there was a time he needed George, it was—

  “Tempy, you’ve been busy!”

  Hearing her voice, Roland opened his eyes and looked toward the door, and felt as though the sun had risen for a second time that day.

  CHAPTER 12

  Roland would be hard-pressed to explain it, but the sight of Miss Clouston lightened his burden somehow. It was foolish, he knew, and felt disloyal to Weet’s memory, which he never wanted to be, but he’d missed the young woman. Missed her calming nature and the way she brightened the room just by being in it. Miss Clouston accepted the hoecake Tempy offered her and ate it in three bites. Nothing pretentious about the woman either.

  Her gaze soon sought his out, and it did him good to watch the tentative smile that briefly curved the corners of her mouth. As she crossed the room toward him, she greeted the other soldiers, something almost reverent in her manner. The way she gently touched their shoulders or brushed the hair back from the foreheads of the younger boys. The loving touches of a mother. Or a sister, perhaps. Although he doubted any soldier in this room viewed Miss Clouston through either of those lenses. And he’d guarantee that every one of them welcomed her attention as much as he did. But it was the tiny chair right next to him that she claimed.

  “Captain Jones, you look as though you’re feeling better than you did this morning.”

  “I am, ma’am. For the most part.” It wasn’t the whole truth. But being up closer to her, he detected weariness in the half-moon shadows beneath her eyes, and a weight on her slender shoulders he didn’t remember. And he didn’t wish to add to it. “How are you faring? We’re all just lying around up here. You’re the one doing the work.”
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  She smiled with her eyes. “I’m well enough. I went to see my parents this afternoon to make sure they were all right.”

  He raised his brows, and she nodded.

  “They are. Mama said a few of the buildings downtown had been set ablaze last night. Some of the stables and the old Fellows Hall. But the fires were quickly extinguished.”

  He frowned. “Your parents live in downtown Franklin?”

  She nodded, and he suddenly had an inkling as to the weariness he’d detected in her. He knew this area fairly well, his division having encamped outside Nashville before. And he’d studied a detailed layout of Franklin before the battle yesterday as tactics were being discussed. The only way to get to town from Carnton was either to walk directly across the fields or to take Lewisburg Pike. Either path would have taken her directly across the eastern flank of the valley—and the aftermath of the battle. It wasn’t weariness he saw in her; it was horror. And shock. The hoecakes in his stomach went sour.

  “I wish you hadn’t gone there.” He kept his voice soft, still hoping he was mistaken in his conclusion. But the watery truth in her eyes told him he wasn’t.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She turned away from the room and toward the hearth, and bowed her head.

  Struggling to contain his own emotions, he felt fatigue move through him. Not so much physical—although there was that, most certainly, aided by the laudanum—but fatigue of heart. Of soul. He was weary of this war. He’d witnessed more killing, by his own hand and the hands of others, than a person ever should. But seeing war’s brutality through a woman’s eyes—the price it exacted—made him think of Weet and the times she’d begged him to come home, both in her letters and during the two visits they’d shared since the war began. Her tears and pleas had moved him deeply. The memory of them still did.