With this Pledge Page 19

  He laughed. But she only smiled and eyed him.

  “I’m so very grateful you lived.” Her eyes lit with a sparkle that precious stones would envy. “And that you got to keep your leg.”

  “And that, my dear Lizzie—” On impulse, Roland reached out his hand, much as he might have done if he were attempting to stroke a skittish doe. And to his surprise, she met him halfway. “That is completely due to you keeping your promise. For which I will forever be grateful.”

  He gently tightened his hand around hers, and the light in her eyes deepened. But too quickly for him, she pulled her hand away. And he reminded himself again, Friendship. Only friendship.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled something out. A thin bundle of letters, he saw upon closer inspection, tied with string.

  “I’d like to show you something,” she said. “And get your opinion, if I could.”

  “Letters from a secret admirer?” he asked, forcing humor into his voice.

  “No,” she whispered, not looking up. “These belonged to a soldier who was here at Carnton. A boy. He was no more than thirteen or fourteen years old.” She handed them to him.

  Sobered, he turned the thin bundle in his hand. “There’s no address.”

  “I know. So I have no idea where to send them. Or if Thaddeus wrote them. Or if they were written to him.”

  “Thaddeus?”

  “I found the name written on a page torn from a Bible. It was with the envelopes in his pocket. But there was no last name. I asked Colonel McGavock this morning if he would check with the War Department to see if they could look up his first name to learn his last. He said he would contact them for me. But look at the string, Roland. It’s tied in a knot. Who knots a stack of letters they intend to read again? And for some reason, I can’t bring myself to cut it. It feels wrong somehow. Like I’m trespassing. Or maybe there’s something in there I shouldn’t be privy to.”

  He smiled at her. “Now you sound like a character from a mystery novel. I seriously doubt there’s anything a boy that age would commit to paper, much less carry around with him, that would be too unseemly.”

  She leaned forward. “There’s something else. It’s what he said to me at the very last, right before he died.”

  “Now you really are sounding mysterious.”

  She briefly closed her eyes. “He said, ‘Mama’ . . . I think he must’ve thought he was speaking to her. He said he’d grieved over how he’d left things between them, but that he didn’t take it with him like he’d apparently told her he had.”

  “He didn’t take what?”

  She shrugged. “That’s just it. I don’t know. He didn’t say. But whatever it is, or was, he said he left it there, buried beneath ‘the old willow tree.’ And then, right before he died, he whispered, ‘Somehow it makes dying easier, knowing you’ll have it.’”

  Roland said nothing for a moment, then sighed. “Well, that certainly sheds an interesting light on things, doesn’t it?”

  She nodded, staring at the bundle in his hands. “I think that’s why I haven’t been able to read these. I feel such a . . .”

  “Burden?” he supplied.

  “Yes. And also a responsibility. But the fact that the string is knotted tight . . .” She eyed it as though it were a living thing. “It doesn’t make sense, I know.”

  “Do you think maybe one of the doctors gave the boy some medication that caused him to become delusional? Maybe he was speaking nonsense.”

  She shook her head. “The doctors weren’t administering medicine to anyone who didn’t stand a good chance of living. And he did not.”

  What she said about medication not being administered haphazardly was true. They hadn’t even offered him any, until Dr. Phillips ordered it.

  She looked down at her hands in her lap. “All I know, Roland, is that I can’t cut the string. But . . .” She slowly lifted her gaze. “Maybe you could.”

  He raised his brows. “So let me get this straight. You want me to cut the string and open the envelopes so that whatever curse you apparently believe is going to befall the poor, unsuspecting soul who does such will settle on me instead of you. Is that what I’m to understand?”

  The tiniest smile crept over her face, and she nodded. “Yes. That’s pretty much the gist of it.”

  He eyed her for a moment, then gestured. “Hand me that knife on the table over there.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Roland sliced through the knotted string binding the stack of envelopes, sensing Lizzie’s trepidation. But being a soldier himself, and carrying his own bundle of letters, he felt at ease with what he was doing. He withdrew the contents of the first of three envelopes and began to read. The handwriting was rather slapdash, so the words were difficult to decipher.

  “What?” Lizzie whispered, leaning closer. “You’re frowning. What is it?”

  Hearing her increased concern, he couldn’t resist egging her on a bit. “Mmmm . . . Lizzie, this is bad.”

  She reached out. “What does it say?”

  Her hand on his bare arm sent a small thunderbolt through him. It took concentration to continue reading. “It says . . . ‘Hayrides. Walks by the creek. Warm biscuits on Sunday mornings. The smell of snow. Melvin, when he burrows down deep beneath the covers with me.’” He lifted his gaze and caught her droll look. “It’s some sort of list.”

  Smiling, he scanned the wrinkled, stained piece of paper, then turned it over. The handwriting filled both front and back. He handed it to her, and she read silently, her lips moving. Softness swept her face.

  “I think it’s a list of things he loved.” She fingered a dog-eared corner, her tone almost reverent.

  “Sunsets painted orangey red. A fresh ticked bed and a warm blanket. The feel of mud between your toes come summer. Rain as it sluices off the metal roofing. Mist as it hangs over the hills.”

  Roland loved watching her. She possessed a kind of beauty that only seemed to deepen the more he got to know her. Features he’d thought comely upon first glance—her full lips, the slight up-tilt of her pretty nose, the womanly curves that not even the simplest blue day dress could mask—he now found intoxicating. She finally folded the letter, and he held up the other two envelopes.

  “Should we?” he asked.

  She nodded, but made no move to take them.

  “Since I’m the one already cursed . . . ,” he said beneath his breath, satisfied when the comment drew a soft laugh.

  He opened the second envelope and withdrew a piece of paper similar in appearance to the first, with the same scrawled handwriting. “This one says . . .” Tempted to tease her again, he read the first few lines and all humor fell away. He cleared his throat.

  “You were right, Mama. This undertaking of mine is far more egregious than my thoughts ever could have conjured. I am not as brave as I once thought myself to be. Before battle commences, in those eternally fleeting moments before the first shot is fired, my bones all but shake free from their joints, and I do not know how my body holds together. I am thoroughly run through with fear. And I am ashamed of being afraid. But I am not the only one. I have seen grown men . . .”

  He stopped reading aloud. Not that Lizzie would have been offended by the boy’s description. He’d witnessed firsthand all she’d been through since the battle that night, and he was convinced there was nothing this woman couldn’t endure with grace and dignity. Rather, he’d witnessed the same things the boy was describing and it had moved him just as deeply.

  She gently tugged the pages from his hand. “‘I have seen grown men,’” she continued, her voice a whisper, “‘lose the contents of their stomachs, and worse, as the first blast of a Napoleon gun sends a cannonball screaming for the front line. Some men are very shaky. Often they take off running the other way. I have seen more than one officer use his revolver on his own men as they seek to retreat before the battle is fully begun.’”

  She drew in a slow, painstaking breath, and Roland reached for the pages.
But she shook her head.

  “‘Blessed quiet has fallen over the night,’” she read on. “‘We are all tired to the bone. Sometimes I lie here and think of home and of all the things I miss about being there.’”

  She looked up at him, and Roland could see she was thinking the same thing he was. About the list they’d just read.

  “Then other times I do anything I can to chase those images from my rememberings. Because with their sweetness comes a pain, like how the sun sometimes breaks through the clouds and you shield your eyes lest its rays blind you. A thought came to me the other day that if both sides could but lay down our guns and meet in the middle of the field to converse instead of kill each other, we might could find a way to bargain. To work all this out. I said as much to my commanding officer, to which he laughed and called me a half-wit. I did not say my next thought aloud to him, lest he clap me a good one to the head like I have seen him do some others. But I pondered . . . He calls me a half-wit, yet I am not the one sending sea after sea of men to their bloody deaths.”

  Roland watched as Lizzie sifted through the rest of the pages. She didn’t seem to be reading them so much as cherishing them, running her fingertips over the words.

  “It’s signed . . . Your loving son.” She looked up. “He was so young, Roland. Too young.”

  He’d had much the same thought as she’d read aloud. He opened the third envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. But this time he handed it to her. She carefully smoothed the crinkled paper on her lap, then held it closer to the lamplight.

  “It’s another list,” she whispered, her gaze moving across the page. “‘Braver. More honest. Less selfish. Complain less. Give more.’” Her chin trembled. She blew out a soft breath, but tears still rose to her eyes. She blinked and handed him the piece of paper. “I can’t see to read any longer.”

  He found where she’d left off and continued. “‘Try harder. Forgive faster. Remember more good things. Be kind.’” He smiled at that one, thinking of how few boys at that age had gained this depth of wisdom. He knew he certainly hadn’t. “‘Think of others more. Go fishing more often. And take Bekah along. Pray more. Listen better. Love others. Build Jenny a house.’” He paused, a little surprised at that one. But even more surprising was how difficult it was to say the next one aloud. “‘Ask Jenny to marry me,’” he whispered, keeping his eyes on the page. “‘Be a good husband.’” Then his throat threatened to close. “‘Be a . . . good father.’”

  The words blurred on the page, and for a long moment he just stared at the watery image, thinking of Susan, of their precious Lena, and of a young boy sitting by a campfire at night, staring into the flames and missing home. When he finally looked back, he saw Lizzie’s cheeks damp with tears.

  “A list of things he wanted to do?” she asked.

  “Or maybe a list of things he wanted to be, if he’d been given a second chance.”

  He looked into her eyes, and the quiet moved in around them, filling their silence. But still she didn’t look away. His body warmed. What he wouldn’t give to take her into his arms and kiss her, slow and long. Show her how he truly felt about her. But on the heels of that desire came a sharp reminder. Even if by some unexplained occurrence Lizzie were to begin to care for him, he had nothing to offer her. Nothing to make a life for her. And even though he was no longer bound to Weet in marriage, the vows they’d exchanged were still bound up within him. Death had torn that relationship asunder, but his heart was still tethered to her somehow. As evidenced by the guilt he felt over the desire coursing through him.

  Roland forced himself to look away first, and he concentrated on what Lizzie had told him the boy had said there at the last. “Somehow it makes dying easier knowing you’ll have it,” he repeated softly. “Whatever it is. What would so young a boy have that he would consider so important?”

  “I don’t know. But one thing I am certain about, Roland. In those final moments, when a man lies dying, he speaks of what matters most to him. And whatever is buried beneath that willow tree, it mattered a great deal to Thaddeus. Enough that he wanted his mother to have it, even after all that had apparently gone wrong between them.”

  Roland stared into her eyes. “Which I firmly believe decides the course we are to take, Lizzie.”

  The hint of a smile touched her mouth. “We need to find his family.”

  “And if Colonel McGavock’s lead doesn’t pan out, I may have another idea.”

  The way she looked at him made him grateful that Loring’s Division had been assigned to Carnton. If he had to be convalescing somewhere, he wanted to be near her.

  A distant pounding rose from the front entrance hall, followed by an indistinguishable blur of voices. But it was the heavy footfalls advancing up the staircase that drew Roland’s attention most. Dread filled him, and he prayed General Folsom hadn’t changed his mind and returned, determined to make good on his threat of prison.

  CHAPTER 20

  To Roland’s great relief, the man who appeared in the doorway, rifle in hand, was not General Folsom or any other Federal officer.

  “Lizzie!” the man whispered, a smile near splitting his face. He crossed the room, took hold of her hands, and drew her to her feet, then hugged her tight.

  Roland felt a stab of jealousy. He wanted to believe this was Lizzie’s brother, but instinct—and the way the man drew back and looked into her eyes—told him that would be mighty wishful thinking on his part.

  “Towny!” Lizzie blinked, as though not believing what she was seeing. “I thought you’d left! But . . . what are you doing here? This isn’t safe! The Federal Army could still be in the area and—”

  “Oh, it’s safe enough, Lizzie. My company bivouacked a few miles from here. We’re joining the rest of the army in Nashville soon. Some of us from here got permission to come back. Wanted to make sure the men left behind were all right. Besides, I didn’t get the chance to say a proper good-bye like I promised. And I always keep my promises. Especially to you.”

  “Yes, you do,” she whispered, a slight dissonance in her tone. She glanced down at Roland and hesitated. “Forgive my manners, Captain. Allow me to introduce Second Lieutenant Blake Townsend. Towny and I grew up together. Here, in Franklin.”

  Roland sensed there was meaning woven in and around that sentence that he couldn’t quite discern. But whatever it was, his gut told him he didn’t want to.

  “Towny,” she continued, “this is Captain Roland Jones from Mississippi.”

  Townsend bent down and extended his left hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Captain. I’ve heard your name, sir. You’re a sharpshooter. And a mighty good one, from what I’ve been told.”

  Appreciating the man’s awareness of his injured right hand, Roland accepted, wishing he could stand for this particular introduction. “I am a sharpshooter, Lieutenant, but don’t believe everything you hear. Rumors tend to grow the truth. Especially after battles.”

  Townsend smiled as he straightened. “Even if I were only to believe half of it, sir, I’d still be impressed. It’s an honor. But”—the man’s gaze swept his body—“I’m sure sorry, Captain, about what happened to you.”

  “Thank you. I aim to be back on my feet soon enough.”

  “That’s good to hear, sir. I just hope my Lizzie here is taking good care of you.”

  Townsend slipped a possessive arm around Lizzie’s waist, and that gut-sinking feeling Roland had experienced moments earlier suddenly developed claws.

  “Oh yes, she is. Miss Clouston is a fine nurse.”

  Roland tried to catch her eye, but she looked anywhere but at him.

  “Lizzie can do just about anything she sets her mind to, Captain.” Townsend kissed the crown of her head. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, sir, I’m going to borrow her for a minute so I can say a proper good-bye to my fiancée.”

  The words landed a blow, but Roland did his best not to show any reaction. “Permission granted, Lieutenant.” He forced a smile and f
inally managed to capture Lizzie’s gaze. “Miss Clouston, thank you for the company this evening.”

  Her smile trembled. “Thank you, Captain.”

  In her eyes he read an entire exchange waiting to be had. But it was an exchange he didn’t mind putting off. Indefinitely. “Good night to you both. And, Lieutenant, God be with you.”

  Lizzie walked hand in hand with Towny out the front door and down the front brick walkway into the bitter cold and dark. Moonlight shone through the bare tree limbs and fell across the front lawn, painting the night, and Towny’s familiar features, in dappled silver shadows. But all she could think about was Roland.

  Why hadn’t she told him she was engaged to be married before now? The look on his face when Towny had called her his fiancée . . . She squeezed her eyes tight. She felt so traitorous. So false. And for good reason. But in her defense, at least at the outset, she’d assumed Roland was married, so the attraction she’d felt for him had been safe, in a way. She never would have acted on those feelings, much less revealed them to him, otherwise. And she’d never intended for them to be revealed at all. But she’d done a poor job at masking her surprise when learning he was a widower, and that was putting it mildly.

  She needed to apologize to him. And would. Once she thought of the right words to say, and could say them without that telling flutter that nearly took her breath away every time he looked at her.

  Towny led her as far as the front gate, then paused and leaned his rifle against the fence.

  “Lizzie, I just had to see you again. Especially after the battle the other night. The more I’ve thought about it, about what could have happened to me . . .” He swallowed hard, his expression pained. “The more I’ve realized how lucky we are to have each other. Well, not lucky, exactly. But you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” she whispered.

  He cradled her face in his hands, and the way he looked down at her with such love brought tears to her eyes. But not for the reasons it should have.