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  Someone passed in the hallway outside, and he looked back in time to see it was Lizzie. She didn’t even look inside Winder’s bedroom. The few times she’d come into the room over the past couple of days, she’d been cordial. But he didn’t have to guess why she’d made herself scarce. He’d made her uncomfortable, and he didn’t blame her for putting distance between them. It was best, he knew. Even if it wasn’t what he really wanted.

  “I wouldn’t mind having me a young nun or two, Smitty. ’Cept I’d have them girls do more than just shave me!”

  Taylor’s high-pitched laughter followed the comment, trailed by something Smitty said beneath his breath that Roland couldn’t hear and didn’t wish to. As always, he chose to ignore them.

  Not long after, George entered the bedroom carrying a steaming bowl.

  “What you got there?” Roland eyed the concoction, able to guess its origin. The smell wasn’t completely off-putting, but enough to make him wary.

  “Me and Miss Tempy made a poultice for you, sir. Same as we did for the other men who got bad cuts. This’ll help the healin’.”

  Roland looked up at him. “What’s in it?”

  A glint slid into George’s eyes. “Pig guts and snake bellies, Cap’n.”

  Roland grinned, his memory swiftly turning back the pages of time. “I still remember that afternoon your grandmother came to the house with something like this. I took one look at it, and those were the first two things that came to mind. My mother didn’t know whether to rub it on my chest or scrub the floors with it.”

  “Probably was good enough for both, sir.”

  They laughed together.

  “Your grandmother sure had some healing ways about her, didn’t she.”

  “Yes, Cap’n, she did. She was a good woman.”

  “How old were the two of us back then?” Roland said, counting back. “The day she brought that poultice. Eight years old, you think?”

  “I reckon that’s right, sir. ’Cuz my granny had just took sick about then, and she died the day you turned nine.”

  “And a week before you did,” Roland added and saw surprise register on George’s face. As though George didn’t think he remembered that their birthdays were so close.

  George had been a gift to him when Roland was younger. Roland hadn’t understood the significance of his father’s actions back then. But as the years passed and Roland came into his own and eventually took over the management of the plantation after his father died, he’d seen the importance of having someone like George to help him. They’d grown up together. George knew him as well as anyone did and could anticipate a need often before Roland even realized something was wanting.

  “You being here is going to help me heal much faster, you know.”

  George nodded. “But only if we get this poultice on you while it’s still fresh from the stove, sir. Like Granny always said, part of the healin’ lies in the heat.”

  Roland pulled up the sheet and blanket covering his legs, and George began slathering the warm concoction onto his wounds. The sutured skin was still tender and puffy red, and more than once Roland had to grit his teeth. As if knowing he needed a distraction, George began recounting incidents from their youth, which soon had Roland laughing. He realized he hadn’t laughed that much since before Weet and Lena died. It felt good. A little wrong still, but good.

  “Hey, boy!”

  Their laughter suddenly died.

  Roland looked over at Taylor and saw the ugly sneer on his face, and the white-hot tip of something akin to hatred about burned a hole in his chest. The past few days of being cooped up with Taylor and Smitty had rubbed his last nerve raw.

  “I said”—Taylor raised his voice—“get over here, boy, and put some of that stuff on my wounds.” Taylor lifted his shirt to show his belly wound.

  Roland leveled a stare. “You’ll get your wounds tended when it’s time, Taylor. And the nuns will help you. There’s plenty of poultice to go around.”

  Taylor spat out a curse. “So you’re the only one who gets to have his own personal darky waitin’ on him hand and foot? That don’t seem quite fair now, does it, Smitty?”

  “No, it don’t. ’Specially seein’ as you and me each done lost part of a leg for the cause. Jones over there just lost a few digits.”

  “I agree, Smitty,” Taylor continued. “I’m thinkin’ that big black . . .”

  Roland hoped the nuns weren’t close enough to hear the contemptuous term Taylor used, one filled with hatred, and followed by language so foul Roland felt a scalding in his chest. Taylor was a good ten years younger, and lean muscled, so he had that going for him. But he was also an arrogant hothead, traits Roland used to be plagued with himself. But life—and Weet’s love—had tempered those from his character through the years. Still, he itched to put the man in his place.

  “George,” Roland said calmly, “go on back downstairs and help Tempy with whatever she needs.”

  “Yes, sir, Cap’n.” George retrieved the bowl and turned to leave.

  Taylor cursed. “Boy, you heard what I said to you. You best get yourself over here right now and do as I say. If you don’t, I’m gonna take the strap to you. And that’s not all I’ll do. I’ll . . .”

  The vileness that spewed from Taylor’s mouth made Roland’s blood boil.

  “What is going on in here!”

  Roland looked over to see Sister Catherine Margaret standing in the doorway, hands on hips, staring Taylor down.

  “Lieutenant Taylor, I have not heard that kind of filth uttered since before I married my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. And then I only heard it from ignorant, spiteful hatemongers who could scarcely lace up their boots, much less understand their own dull-wittedness and idiocy. And I will certainly not tolerate that kind of talk in the house of a Christian man to whom you are indebted for your entire sustenance and physical well-being.”

  Taylor opened his mouth to respond, but the nun beat him to the punch.

  “If you persist in this, Lieutenant, I will personally remove you from this house and let you fend for yourself out in the cold. Do you understand me?”

  Roland worked to curb a grin. Especially when Taylor’s neck went crimson.

  “But you weren’t here, Sister. You don’t know what happened. It ain’t fair that Jones has his own personal—”

  Taylor had barely uttered the word again when Sister Catherine Margaret was on him. She reached under Taylor’s armpits and dragged the man toward the bedroom door as though Taylor were nothing but a youth.

  “Let go of me, you fat—”

  Sister Catherine did precisely that and Taylor fell backward, smacking his head on the floor. She bent low over him, how close, Roland couldn’t exactly see. All his perspective provided was a view of her backside, which he tried to peer around, sorely wanting to see Taylor’s expression.

  “You will listen to me very carefully, Lieutenant Taylor.” The sister’s voice sounded surprisingly calm. Even kind. “I serve my blessed Lord, whom I love with all my heart. But if you think that will prevent me from disciplining you in the manner in which you deserve, you are sorely mistaken. You are acting like an ignorant youth, so I will treat you as such. If I hear one more unseemly word come from your mouth, you’ll be tasting lye soap until Easter. Have I made myself clear?”

  “I’m tellin’ you, Sister. It’s Jones’s fault. He’s a no-good—”

  Whatever Sister Catherine said next, Roland couldn’t hear. But Taylor got real quiet real quick. Wanting to see what was happening, Roland leaned over as far as he could. But still . . . nothing but backside.

  “Have you and I reached an accord, Lieutenant Taylor?” she finally asked, her voice as soft and sweet as a spring breeze.

  Seconds passed.

  “Yeah,” came a rough whisper.

  “Let’s try that again,” she said cheerfully.

  “Yes . . . Sister.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant.” She straightened. “Now, I’ll go fetch
a fresh bandage and some warm poultice, and we’ll see to your wounds. And those of Private Smith as well.”

  Taylor’s face was still flushed with anger, but Roland thought he detected a glimmer of fear too.

  Sister Catherine Margaret straightened. But instead of leaving the room, she marched right toward Roland, and a feeling came over him that he hadn’t experienced since that day years ago when he’d misbehaved in pretty Miss Putnam’s class.

  The nun knelt, her smile radiant as always. “Captain Jones . . .”

  She kept her voice to a whisper, and from his peripheral vision Roland spotted Taylor leaning to one side trying to see, just as he’d done a moment earlier.

  Her eyes held a merry sparkle. “I am well aware of how soldiers can often provoke each other, especially when days grow long and patience grows thin. So for the duration of your time here at Carnton, I am asking that you not do anything to intentionally provoke the lieutenant. As difficult as that will be at times, considering the fodder he is certain to provide.”

  Roland had difficulty holding back a smile. But knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it supplied proper motivation.

  “And since we both know,” she continued, “that the lieutenant will likely, one day soon, when he gets the opportunity, attempt to assault you in retribution for this, I will advise the sisters to keep close watch on this room. I would move him to another room, but I fear he might begin to antagonize another soldier who does not possess your maturity and patience.”

  Roland stared. How did she do it? How did she speak with such kindness while, in no uncertain terms, laying down the law in regard to her expectations?

  “Still . . .” She leaned closer. “I’d sleep with one eye open, if I were you. Now wipe the hint of a smile from your face so the lieutenant will at least wonder if you got a scolding as well.”

  Roland did as she asked. And she winked.

  As soon as she left the room, Taylor looked across at him. “When I’m better, Jones,” he whispered, anger contorting his features, “I’m gonna teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.”

  Reminded of his pledge to Sister Catherine Margaret, Roland showed not a hint of the pleasure that such a prospect held. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Her stomach in knots, Lizzie paused at the top of the staircase wishing she hadn’t put this off. The sooner she apologized to Roland, explained why she’d not mentioned being betrothed earlier, the sooner they could get on with being friends. Friends. The word she’d once used to describe Towny. Yet no matter what word she used for Roland, her feelings for him were definitely something more than friendship. Thankfully, he didn’t know that.

  And even more important than their getting back on an even footing with one another was the fact that they needed to begin working in earnest together to find Thaddeus’s family. Colonel McGavock had yet to hear back from his contact in the War Department. And with every day that passed, Lizzie grew more eager to receive word.

  She’d heard about what had happened earlier that afternoon with Lieutenant Taylor and what he’d said to George. It turned her stomach just thinking about it. Everyone in the house seemed to be more on edge these days. The air in some of the bedrooms fairly crackled with tension. And this with Christmas scarcely two weeks away. It certainly didn’t feel much like Christmas this year. Not with everyone waiting for news about the Army of Tennessee and what would happen next.

  Around this time last year, the Women’s Relief Society had sponsored an auction here at Carnton, and the event had raised an enormous amount of money to benefit the wounded soldiers. From start to finish, women had organized and carried out the event—something heretofore unheard of. Lizzie had been so proud. Change was happening. It simply wasn’t happening fast enough for her.

  She forced one foot in front of the other and crossed the second-floor hallway, the hollow ring of her new heeled boots echoing on the bare wooden planks. The boots, an extravagance during such lean times, were still a bit tight but would loosen with wear. She was grateful for them. They’d been waiting for her in her room one afternoon, along with a homespun shirtwaist and skirt. She’d noticed new clothing and boots in Tempy’s bedroom too. Mrs. McGavock’s doing.

  Lizzie stopped just short of Winder’s room. Maybe Roland would be asleep. Or reading. Or maybe he and one of the other soldiers would be deep in conversation, so she wouldn’t be able to—

  Shoving aside the excuses, she peered inside the room and saw him. Or saw his lower half, the blanket covering his legs. He lay on the floor to the left of the hearth, on the far side of the bed. The other soldiers were either napping or reading, and she nodded at them as she passed, thankful that Taylor and Smitty were among the former.

  The clock on the mantel chimed, drawing her attention. Four o’clock. It would be dark soon. How she longed for the warmer, longer days of summer that—

  She rounded the bed and stopped short, scarcely able to believe her eyes. Roland was asleep, but that wasn’t what brought her up short. He was . . . changed. He scarcely looked like the same man. He’d shaved his beard, and his hair looked freshly washed and cut. She took a step closer, wanting to get a better look. And the floorboard creaked.

  He opened his eyes, then briefly squeezed them tight again. “Lizzie?”

  His voice was groggy with sleep. He yawned and stretched and gave a sigh that was distinctly male, and Lizzie felt herself react to it. Then he tossed her a sleepy smile that kicked her pulse up another two notches. She’d found him attractive before, but now . . . The features of his face, strong and angular, were more pronounced. And his eyes. They looked an even deeper gray than she remembered.

  He ran a hand over his jaw. “Sister Catherine Margaret did the honors. I’m still getting used to it. Right now my face is just plain cold.”

  He smiled, and Lizzie swallowed. Nothing about her was cold at the moment.

  “It . . . looks nice, Roland.”

  His smile faded and it felt as though he could read every thought in her head, which offered no comfort. She fidgeted, and despite having come here to apologize, all she wanted to do right now was flee.

  “I came up here to tell you—to tell everyone”—she included the rest of the soldiers in her nod as she backed from the room—“that dinner is almost ready. We’ll be bringing it up shortly.” She didn’t wait for a response, but hurried downstairs to the kitchen and grabbed an apron from the hook.

  “Heavenly days, ma’am, you’s all flushed.” Tempy reached up and felt her forehead. “You comin’ down with somethin’?”

  “No, I’m fine. I feel fine.” Lizzie reached for a knife and started peeling potatoes alongside her, grateful when Tempy didn’t force the subject.

  But when they served dinner to the soldiers later, Lizzie made certain Tempy was the one to serve the soldiers in Winder’s room.

  Sitting against the wall, a pillow at his back, Roland studied Dr. Phillips’s expression. He tried to parse the doctor’s thoughts as the man scrutinized the incisions on his right leg. Another doctor had come by two days ago but had quickly deferred to Phillips’s counsel.

  “Captain, I want you to tell me if this hurts.”

  “Why is it that whenever a doctor leads with that, it almost always does?”

  Phillips smiled, and Roland braced himself.

  The doctor gently pressed on his upper right thigh, and Roland sucked in a breath.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, Captain.”

  Roland felt sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Does that mean anything, Doc? That it still hurts this much?”

  “It means you’ve got a severe leg wound that needs time to heal. And by time, I mean weeks, not days. You also need to be on a bed. Or a cot. Not the hard floor.” The doctor glanced down. “I see they had the carpet removed up here, same as they’ve done downstairs. I’m sorry they had to do it, but there was no choice.”

  Roland nodded. “Some of the neighbors came over to help with the
undertaking a couple of days ago. I overhead Miss Clouston say that the McGavocks will replace it, but it could be a while.”

  Roland looked at the wooden boards stretching across Winder’s bedroom floor, especially those over by the window where the surgical table had been. Although Tempy and the nuns had scrubbed and cleaned, the boards still bore the bloodstains, and he guessed they always would. From where he sat, he thought he even saw the outline of Dr. Phillips’s shoes where he’d stood performing surgery throughout the long night.

  “I’ll speak to Miss Clouston about getting you a bed of some sort,” the doctor continued, tugging Roland’s thoughts back.

  “I’d appreciate that, Doc. But you said it takes weeks, not days, for a wound like mine to heal. What do you mean by weeks? My manservant arrived a few days back, and I figured we could get started on some healing rituals of some sort soon.”

  Phillips rose. “You’re bound and determined to undo the work I’ve done, aren’t you?”

  “No, sir. But I am bound and determined to walk again. And from what I’ve heard of late, some say that being up and around sooner rather than later is good for mending a bone.” He decided not to add that George was the one who’d shared that information with him.

  “So you’re a physician now too, is that right, Captain Jones?”

  “I’m a man who wants to walk again, Doc. That’s it. Plain and simple.”

  “I want that for you too, Captain. I honestly do.” Phillips’s gaze sobered. “But remember that the sooner you walk, the sooner you go to prison.”

  The doctor paused as though wanting to let the words settle in, and settle they did. Not that Roland had forgotten about the prison sentence hanging over his head. Prison was something that, once experienced, a man didn’t forget. But since George’s arrival, the prospect of walking again had eclipsed nearly every other thought. Especially when he thought of Taylor, and what Taylor and Smitty might be planning for him.