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  “Oh, sweetheart . . .” Lizzie cradled her closer and exchanged a look with the colonel. “I know it must feel that way, but there’s no blood on you. It was all a bad dream.”

  Lizzie heard the words come from her mouth and truly wished that were the case for everything that had happened in the past few days. Well, almost everything.

  The colonel knelt beside the bed. “Hattie, would you like to sleep with Papa and Mama for the rest of the night?”

  Hattie looked up at her father, then at Lizzie. Lizzie smiled and nodded, a bit surprised herself at the invitation. The McGavocks were excellent and loving parents, but rarely did they indulge their children in such ways.

  Hattie finally nodded, and the colonel held out his arms. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered against her hair.

  Watching them, Lizzie remembered the safety of her own father’s arms when she was younger. What a weighty treasure parenthood was. To have the ability to whisper to a child, “Everything will be all right,” and have them believe you without question. Even though it really wasn’t within your power to make that promise.

  “Thank you, Miss Clouston,” the colonel whispered and closed the door behind them.

  Lizzie lay back down and pulled up the covers, but quickly realized that sleep was done with her. She turned up the lamp and dressed quickly, then glanced back before she closed the bedroom door behind her. Winder was now sprawled in the center of the bed, still fast asleep. She had no doubt that he, too, would carry scars from what had happened here, but how those scars would manifest themselves remained to be seen. For everyone, she guessed.

  Downstairs, she stoked the flickering embers in the kitchen hearth and added more wood, then filled the coffee kettle with water and set it to boil over the flame. Dawn was only a couple of hours away, which meant Tempy would be down soon enough to start her day’s work.

  Waiting for the water to boil, Lizzie ran a hand over the rustic mantel, appreciating the history of this part of the home. Besides the second-story back porch, this kitchen was her favorite place in the house. She sometimes thought of this part of the home as the east wing, but it was actually the original farmhouse the colonel’s parents had built. Constructed of red brick, the farmhouse abutted the larger, more spacious addition to the home that had been added later. The kitchen boasted three windows on both the north and south walls, which allowed ample sunlight, as well as a way for Lizzie to keep watch of Winder when he tried to sneak off to the barn or head toward the fields to play.

  Lizzie added coffee grounds to the roiling water and gave it a stir. Minutes later, she poured herself a cup of the warm brew and had just sat down at the table when the stairs leading to the bedrooms creaked behind her.

  “Well, ain’t this a nice surprise.” Tempy paused for a moment, still wrapping her hair in one of the colorful tignons she wore.

  “You can do that without even looking in a mirror?”

  Tempy smiled. “I do it way better not lookin’. Seein’ this ole face starin’ back at me, ’specially so early in the mornin’, gives me a fright!”

  Lizzie laughed. “That one is especially pretty. The blues and greens suit your coloring.”

  “The missus always picks out the cloth. She does a good job at it.”

  Lizzie heard the compliment in the statement, but could only think about how Tempy didn’t even have the right to choose the material she wore. Lizzie took a long drink of coffee. Lord, whatever changes are coming, let them come quickly. And let them last.

  “Tempy . . .”

  Tempy turned from where she stood cracking eggs into a bowl.

  Lizzie kept her voice soft. “I was thinking that either early mornings or late evenings would be the best times for our lessons.”

  Tempy glanced over to the stairs leading to the bedrooms above them, and Lizzie halfway expected her to say she’d changed her mind.

  “I reckon you right, ma’am. But whatever we do, it’s got to be us alone knowin’ about it.”

  “We’ll be careful, I promise.” So many questions came to mind that she wanted to ask. But one stood out above the rest. “Have you ever heard from the slaves who were sent away from here at the start of the war?”

  Tempy turned. “How long you been wantin’ to ask me that, ma’am?”

  Lizzie fingered the grip of her coffee mug. “A long time.”

  Tempy returned to her work. “I used to get word every now and then when I’s at the market in town or someone brought somethin’ to the house. But a lotta time done passed since I heard anything. I remember that mornin’ so well . . .” She paused, cracked eggshell in hand. “I had everythin’ that was mine all wrapped and tied up to go, but when I walked outside to get on the wagon, Colonel told me I’d be stayin’. Didn’t make sense at first. We’d all heard that if the Federals came here to the farm, they’d be takin’ us with ’em. Settin’ us free. That’s why the colonel was sendin’ us all away.” A sad smile turned her mouth. “But every soldier I’s seen in a blue coat, he just looks straight through me like I ain’t even there. I guess the settin’ free part only counts if you ain’t mostly dried up and old like me.” She shot a look back at Lizzie. “But the colonel and the missus,” she said quickly, “they been right good to me, ma’am. I got more than most slaves. A lot more.”

  Lizzie shook her head. “You don’t have to say that to me, Tempy. I know the McGavocks are kind and generous people. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re not free. Not yet, anyway.”

  Tempy gave her a look that held only the faintest glimmer of hope. But Lizzie couldn’t blame her for feeling as though her station in life was never going to change. Slavery was all the woman had ever known. And while Lizzie couldn’t change that, she could help her in other ways, and was eager to begin.

  Tempy went to fetch some supplies from the larder, and Lizzie rose and stirred the pot of grits she’d placed over the fire, watching the butter melt and swirl. She turned in order to warm her backside and looked out the front window into the darkness. She stilled and squinted.

  She would’ve sworn she saw movement outside by the front gate. Likely a deer. But—she crossed to the window—no, it was too large to be a deer. Her breath fogged the pane, and she wiped the ghosted glass with her palm. It was a man. He looked toward the house, then back down the road as though debating, then sat down on the ground by the front gate.

  Her first inclination was to alert Colonel McGavock. But a man sitting by the front gate wasn’t exactly a threat. And it was brutally cold outside. Lizzie grabbed her shawl from the hook and opened the kitchen door. “Who goes there?” she called out.

  The man looked back, then slowly rose to his feet. He was wearing a pack of some sort. “Be this the Carnton place, ma’am?” His voice was deep, and the stillness before the dawn only amplified it.

  “It is. And who might you be?”

  “Name be George, ma’am. I come to be with Cap’n Jones.”

  Roland lay on the wood plank floor, his back aching with a pain that went bone deep, but he didn’t dare try to sit up on his own. He wanted more morphine, but he’d seen what that medicine could do to a man once he began leaning on it too heavily. He already had enough obstacles to overcome.

  He guessed the nuns on duty had fallen asleep in the hallway. Couldn’t blame them. It had been a long night, the clock in one of the rooms downstairs chiming each hour and quarter hour. The symphony of snoring hadn’t helped either. Although he knew that wasn’t the real cause of his sleeplessness. Why was it that the night hours seemed to pass so much more slowly than those during the day? So much for time passing swiftly, as he and Sister Catherine Margaret had been discussing last evening.

  The older a person gets, the more swiftly time passes.

  Remembering Lizzie’s smartish expression when she’d responded to his challenge last night tempted him to smile. Thinking of what had happened shortly after didn’t. Betrothed. He hadn’t been expecting that. And what had he been thinking
, taking her hand that way? Certainly nothing levelheaded when it came to Elizabeth Clouston.

  The combination of his injuries and too much idle time had caused him to read something into her behavior that clearly wasn’t there. He felt foolish. Even a little embarrassed. He sighed and situated the bear’s head beneath his own. “Well, Sir Horace,” he whispered, “it’s just you and me, friend. What do you think we ought to do? Try to sit up? Or just lie here like the aging invalids we are?” The statement felt truer than he cared to admit. He didn’t like not being in control.

  Surely dawn couldn’t be far off now. Peering through the window, he watched the night sky as it turned from black to deep purple, then gave way to violet with hints of pink, and he wondered again where heaven really was. Preacher E. M. Bounds—who’d traveled with the Army of Tennessee for the last few months, and with whom he’d enjoyed many an evening conversing by the campfire—had told him heaven was up there, beyond the clouds.

  Roland knew his Bible well enough to know it spoke of Jesus being taken up into the clouds, so he figured the preacher’s counsel was right enough. What treasures that place must hold, including the two he already knew were there waiting for him. He squinted, wishing he could see beyond the veil. He figured even a second or two of witnessing that splendor would last him for the rest of his life here.

  A deep yearning filled him, along with a homesickness. Weet, Lena . . . I sure do love you two gals. Always will. He swallowed. Take care of each other . . . until I get there and can do that for you both.

  He hoped Preacher Bounds had made it through the battle the other night unscathed. The last time he’d seen the scrappy little man of God, Bounds had been marching with them into the thick of it, as was his custom. Standing barely five feet tall and thin as a reed, the preacher was so burdened down by his backpack and equipment that the soldiers had taken to calling him “the walking bundle.”

  The man had an uncanny ability to remember names. Whenever Roland saw him greeting a soldier, it was always by name. And unlike the other ministers who stayed back at camp, Bounds always marched right alongside them into the fray, his Bible raised and scripture pouring forth from him along with shouts of encouragement, exhorting the soldiers that if they hadn’t yet bowed the knee to Jesus, right then would be an opportune time to do so.

  Roland had long ago bowed that particular knee, but about a year ago he’d found himself surrendering yet again. They’d been on the outskirts of Chattanooga under heavy fire from a group of Federals who outnumbered them three to one. With bullets screaming past him, cannon fire exploding, shaking the ground beneath his feet, he’d thought for sure that his time had come. Then somehow, over the thunder of war, he’d heard that familiar voice calling out.

  “‘The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the LORD is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?’ God knows the precise moment he will call you home, my dear brothers. You will not stay on this earth one second longer than God ordains! Nor will you be swept up to heaven’s peace a moment too soon. You are in his hands. So travel this life with that confidence tucked close against your heart!”

  Every morning Bounds rose at four o’clock and prayed until seven, and encouraged others to pray too. “Prayers are deathless, Captain Jones. They outlive the lives of those who utter them.”

  Roland liked that thought. And while he’d never even come close to developing the discipline Preacher Bounds possessed in that regard, his communication with the Almighty had taken a definite downturn in recent months. If only he knew what the Almighty had planned for his life, and for the Confederacy, then maybe he’d be able to pray better.

  “Come this way. He’s right up here.”

  Roland recognized Lizzie’s voice and the soft footfalls on the stairs. A heavier tread followed hers, and he turned in the direction of the door in time to see her enter, along with—

  “George!” Roland’s voice came out louder than intended, which earned him grumbles from those still trying to sleep.

  “Cap’n Jones!” George said in his version of a whisper.

  George crossed the room in minimum strides, joy and uncertainty taking turns dominating the man’s features. Roland held out his left hand, and George took firm hold.

  “It’s sure good to see you, Cap’n.”

  “It’s good to see you too. I wasn’t certain the telegram I sent would even arrive.”

  “Took a mite longer for me to get here than I counted on, but I made it. And I come right away too. Some of the train tracks was busted up pretty bad. One of the army’s doin’s, I guess. That slowed me down.” George settled beside him on the floor. “Miss Lizzie here, and Miss Tempy, they done fed me breakfast downstairs, sir. It was mighty good and plenty of it.”

  “Well, that was nice of them. I hope you left some for the rest of us.”

  Seeing George’s wide-toothed grin again was like getting a glimpse of home.

  “Yes, sir, I did. How bad has you been shot, Cap’n?”

  “My legs got the worst of it.” Roland lifted his bandaged right hand. “But the doctor says that with some work I should be able to walk again. Now that you’re here, I’m hoping we’ll get that started soon enough.”

  “Whatever you need, sir, you let me know and I do my best to get it.”

  “But you must take things slowly,” Lizzie interjected. “At least that’s what Dr. Phillips instructed.”

  Only then did Roland allow himself to look over at her, uncertain how he should address her now, since learning of her betrothal. But considering he could be at Carnton for what might be many more weeks, retreating to the more formal address could make things even more awkward between them.

  “Good morning, Lizzie. And yes, I’ll be certain to take measured steps, so to speak.”

  She nodded, her smile fleeting. “I hope you rested well last night.”

  “Not particularly.” He gave a humored grimace to soften his response.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t sleep much either.”

  A quiet undertone in her voice told him that a conversation between them was inevitable, and he reined in a sigh.

  “Speaking of breakfast . . .” Lizzie gestured, then knotted her hands at her waist as if she didn’t know what to do with them. “If you’ll both excuse me, I need to get back to the kitchen to help Tempy. We’ll return shortly with eggs and bacon and some bread for everyone.”

  Roland nodded. “That sounds good. Thank you.”

  She dipped her head. “You’re most welcome, Roland.”

  He watched her walk away. So much for not retreating to the formal. But if it was this renewed formality or not seeing her at all, he’d take this. But he knew he’d best be careful. Because like morphine, the woman had an addictive quality. Something he’d do well to remember.

  “Mind if I see your legs, sir? See what we’s up against?”

  Roland lifted the sheet and blanket covering the lower half of his body, and winced at the pain reflected in George’s expression. “The doctor wanted to take this one.” He indicated his right leg. “But I told him no before I went under. Miss Lizzie was there during the surgery to make sure he stuck to my wishes. If not for her, this leg would be long gone.”

  George shook his head. “I ain’t never had the gift of healin’ like a real doctor, sir, but that leg sure does look tore up.” As though suddenly realizing what he’d said, George forced a smile. “’Course, if we work at it together, Cap’n, I’m thinkin’ we can get you walkin’ again.”

  “That’s the aim, George. And the sooner the better.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Sister, I can’t tell you how good this feels. Almost makes me forget about my legs. Who needs morphine when they could be freshly shaved and shorn?”

  Sister Catherine Margaret smiled down at him as she poured warm water over his head. “I believe I’ll hang a shingle out in front of the convent.”

  Roland laughed, relishing the warm water and the opportun
ity to clean up, even if having a porcelain basin under his neck was beginning to cause an ache.

  “I’m just sorry it took me so long to get to it, Captain. The sisters and I are helping at other places in town in recent days. So many are hurting still.”

  “I’m just grateful to you for doing it. And it’s certainly been worth the wait.”

  He never imagined he would so enjoy being freshly shaven. He ran a hand over his smooth jawline and thought of Susan. Last time he’d seen her and Lena, he’d looked much as he had moments earlier. Hair nearly down to his shoulders and beard all wild and woolly. Susan had insisted on shaving off his beard before they’d gone to bed together that night. The memory brought a smile, and a pang of regret. This was his first shave since.

  Sister Catherine Margaret helped him to a sitting position and handed him a fresh towel to dry his hair, then made a show of studying him. “I was right, Captain. There were marks of handsomeness beneath all that dark hair and beard. But only a wee bit.” She chuckled.

  Roland laughed too, then lowered his voice. “Don’t you go and start being tempted over me now, Sister. You’ll have to do more than a few Hail Marys to get out of that one.”

  He’d never heard a nun laugh so heartily or so long. The other men in the room just looked at her.

  A moment passed, and she gave Roland a motherly pat on the shoulder. “Oh, Captain . . . If ever I’d had a son, I’d like to think he would’ve been like you.”

  Roland swiftly sobered, and for a beat words escaped him. He watched her gather the dirty linens and basin of sudsy water. “Sister,” he finally managed, “that’s most kind of you. And more than a little generous. The fact that you would even think such a thing gives me something to aspire to.”

  She shook her head and made a tsking sound. “There you go again, Captain. Handsome and good-hearted. Rest assured, we’ll be sending no young nuns to help at Carnton while you’re here!”

  She walked out the door, still chuckling to herself, and Roland had to smile. He ran a hand over his smooth jaw, the sensation unfamiliar, to say the least. But a good kind of unfamiliar.