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  Tempy drew her into her arms, and Lizzie held on tight. “You do deserve that, ma’am. And so does that Lieutenant Towny.”

  That Lieutenant Towny, Lizzie noticed. Not her lieutenant. Not anymore.

  “And you both are gonna find it. Just wait and see.”

  “I never meant to hurt him. But I did.”

  Tempy smiled. “We all go through life not meanin’ to hurt each other, Miss Lizzie. But we do. Seems like those we love best, we hurt the most. Don’t make sense, I know, but it’s the plain truth of it. Now you sit down right here.” Tempy pulled out a chair. “And let me get you some hot coffee and breakfast.”

  Not hungry, Lizzie did as Tempy bade, thinking again about Towny’s last letter and what he’d said about imminent death causing him to embrace life in a way he hadn’t before. Because you realize the precious fleetingness of it, and of how very little time we all have here. Which is all the more reason not to delay once you find what you want with all your heart. She’d thought he had meant her by that last phrase. But he hadn’t. He’d been talking about finding a woman who would love him as he deserved to be—

  “Miss Clouston.”

  Lizzie looked up to see Sister Mary Grace standing at the base of the stairs leading to the main house.

  “It’s Lieutenant Shuler, Miss Clouston. You need to come quickly.”

  LIZZIE HURRIED UP the staircase, passing Sister Mary Grace. When she reached Winder’s bedroom, she paused in the doorway to catch her breath, only to have it stolen away again. James looked so pale and small in the bed. So different from when she’d left him last night. She crossed to him, her gaze connecting with Roland’s. And if she hadn’t already known the truth, the sadness in his eyes would have confirmed it. Sisters Angelica, Elizabeth, and Faith stood teary-eyed at the foot of the bed, and even Taylor and Smitty had the decency to look somber.

  Lizzie moved the straight-back chair aside and sat on the edge of the bed. She pressed a hand to James’s forehead, the flush of his cheeks foretelling the heat of his skin.

  His eyes fluttered open, then closed again, and his parched lips curved in a weak smile. “You’re here . . .” His voice held a measure of surprise.

  Lizzie swallowed. “Of course I’m here. And I won’t leave your side for a minute.”

  “Just like you promised.”

  She nodded. “Just like I promised.”

  The moment stretched.

  “Does it hurt much?” he whispered.

  Lizzie looked over at Roland, but his expression said he didn’t understand either. So she answered as she thought best. “No, it doesn’t hurt. Not at all.”

  “Good . . .” Again his pale lips curved as he opened his eyes. His gaze found hers. “’Cause I’m tired of hurtin’, Mama.”

  Lizzie held her breath to keep from sobbing. “I know you are, James,” she finally managed. “And I’m sorry, sweetheart . . . that you’ve been through so much.”

  He lifted a shaky hand from the bedcovers, and she grasped it. To her surprise, he held on tight. Then his breathing changed. It grew thready and uneven. She recognized the moment for what it was, having been with Thaddeus at his death. She took a deep breath and leaned closer.

  “It’s time to come home, James.” How she spoke in that moment, she didn’t know. “Thomas and I . . . are waiting here for you.”

  And once again she felt the slender thread binding soul to body stretch until it gave way. James’s hand gradually went lax in hers as he breathed his last. Behind her Lizzie heard the hushed prayers of the nuns, but she couldn’t look away from James’s face. If it hurt this badly to lose this precious young man, how much more did it hurt to lose one’s own son or daughter?

  Moments passed, and she tucked his hand back beneath the covers and rose. She met Roland’s gaze, his eyes red-rimmed, and wondered if perhaps he was thinking about his sweet daughter. And maybe Weet too. And though he said nothing, he said everything she needed to hear. She wished she could walk straight into the comfort of his arms and feel his strength come around her. She turned to see Colonel and Mrs. McGavock in the doorway, and Carrie crossed the room and reached for her hands.

  “Well done, my dear,” Carrie said through tears.

  Lizzie tightened her grip, fresh emotion rising. “How did you do this?” she said softly. “How did you go through this three times? He wasn’t even my son and I—”

  Carrie looked into her eyes. “I didn’t go through it alone. The Lord was with me every step of the way. He was with both me and John.”

  Lizzie nodded as though she understood, then hurried from the room and down the stairs, eager to get somewhere by herself where she could give in to the grief building like a wave inside her. She opened the front door and ran down the steps and across the yard until she reached the shelter of the towering Osage orange tree. Hidden from view of the house, she sank onto the bench nestled by a hedge of hydrangea and wept.

  CHAPTER 38

  Balancing on crutches, Roland slowly shifted some of his weight to his right leg and braced himself for a conflagration of pain—which didn’t come. Feeling the sweat on his brow, he looked over at Dr. Phillips, then at George, whose expressions both held anticipation—and cautious hope.

  “Now’s about the time, Captain, when you tell me what a stupendous surgeon I am.”

  Roland smiled. “I think I’ll hold that accolade until I actually take a first step.”

  The doc shook his head. “Doubter.”

  Roland slowly lifted his left leg, placing a greater portion of his weight on his weaker side, and he winced at the discomfort that shot from his foot straight up into his back. “How is it I can lift both of my legs repeatedly on the cot, and I’m fine. Then I try to put weight on this right side and it’s like needles running through my veins.”

  “One, you’re using different muscles when you lie flat and lift that way. There’s not as much pressure on your back. And two, you haven’t been on your feet in over a month, Jones. Give it some time. It’ll hurt at first, but that’ll ease up the more you move. Your bones are still healing. But you’re strong. You’ll get there.”

  Phillips looked over at George. “You think he’s ready for it?”

  George smiled. “I reckon he is, sir.”

  “Ready for what?” Roland looked between them, not trusting the glimmer in their eyes.

  George stepped forward. “I got somethin’ to show you in the barn, sir.”

  “What is it?”

  “I really don’t wanna say, sir. I want you to come and see it.”

  Roland frowned. “But if you’d just tell me—”

  “Jones.” Phillips leveled a stare. “For once in your life, don’t dissect something to death. Just trust him and get moving.”

  Roland knew the doc couldn’t possibly know how timely his words were. But—he smiled to himself—he and God did. With the aid of his crutches, he reached back to his cot for one of Weet’s letters he’d been rereading. He folded it and slid it beneath the thin mattress with the others. As he turned, he saw Winder’s empty bed and could still imagine James Shuler lying there, that crooked little smile on his face. It had only been two days since Colonel McGavock, Dr. Phillips, George, and Lizzie had buried the young lieutenant with the others of their regiment who lay to rest in the Harpeth Valley. Roland planned on walking that field again as soon as he was able. He still had some formal good-byes to say.

  Working to keep his balance, he made his way toward the open bedroom door.

  “Goin’ for a walk, Captain Jones?” Taylor asked, looking up at him.

  Roland didn’t trust the straightforward question, nor the look of forced interest on Taylor’s face. “Going for a run, Lieutenant.”

  Taylor laughed and nodded. “That’s a good one, sir.”

  Sir? Roland’s grip tightened on the crutches. Taylor had been on his best behavior lately, which meant only one thing. Trouble was brewing.

  Roland made it to the door without mishap. It felt go
od—and odd—to move on his own accord. Or mostly on his own. A little later than his goal of taking his first step by Christmas, but he’d finally made it. He started across the second-floor hallway toward the stairs when George came up alongside him. Phillips followed.

  “I help you down, Cap’n.”

  “No, I think I’d rather try this on my—” Roland saw the steep set of stairs descending downward. And much as he didn’t want to depend on George in this particular way, he knew that if he tried it on his own and fell, it would delay his recuperation by weeks. Or do even worse damage than before. He nodded and handed the doc his crutches. “All right then.”

  George picked him up—one arm supporting his back, the other beneath the bend in his legs—and carried him down. Roland kept his gaze forward but sensed that George could feel his discomfort. No matter his determination not to worry about the family estate or how he was going to care for his mother, sisters, and the female relatives from Georgia now staying with them, he still thought about the challenge before him constantly. He thought about George too, and wondered if he was planning on leaving with his family soon. If George did decide to leave, Roland knew that would mark the end for his estate. All would be lost. And it might well be anyway, for all he knew.

  Feeling the burden of worry settling in again, he swiftly centered his thoughts. God knew what was coming down the pike, even if he didn’t. The Almighty had made that much clear. And while Roland wished the Lord would be a little more openhanded with his plans, he determined to take one step at a time. And right now that meant learning to walk.

  “You’s a mite heavier, sir, than some of them other smaller fellas upstairs.”

  Phillips laughed behind them. “It’s all that sitting around and eating he’s been doing, George. We need to get this man moving.”

  “Yes, sir, Doc. We do.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, George set him down and assisted him with his crutches, and the act wasn’t lost on Roland. The slave helping the slave owner to stand. Roland felt lesser inside because of it and was grateful his father and grandfather weren’t alive to see him like this. To see what the world was becoming. But even as those thoughts took shape, Roland felt a nudge of shame, thinking about how Lizzie would react if she heard them. And what had she meant the other night when she’d said God had given her the courage to say yes to what he’d called her to do? What was that exactly? he wondered. And why did it worry him?

  George helped him out the back door and down the porch steps and toward the barn. Roland paused for a minute and let the sunshine warm his face. The air was cool and crisp, and he felt a measure of gratitude simply for the chance to stand there and drink it in. He was thankful to Dr. Phillips, most certainly. But also to George. George didn’t have to be here. Not anymore. Roland knew, when he’d sent that wire to his mother, that George could have refused to come. But he hadn’t. And ever since he’d been here, he’d been nothing but helpful. Even if the familiarity between him and Lizzie was more than a little bothersome. Was that all part of how things would be changing as well? He was fairly sure he just heard his father and grandfather roll over in their graves. The sardonic thought brought a humorless smile, but beneath that was another layer of experience and memory Roland had yet to probe. And wasn’t eager to.

  Because if Lizzie was right—and that if still loomed large in his mind—and owning slaves as his family had done for years was immoral, that made his grandfather and father immoral men. And that struck against everything within him. Because he’d patterned his life after those two men. They’d not only shown him how to farm and run a plantation, but they’d sown the seeds that had become the foundation of his faith. How could they have done that if their actions in this regard had been so reprehensible? He stood on their shoulders and had the life he did due, at least in part, to the legacy they’d left behind. Both physical and spiritual. To admit his own guilt was one thing. But to assign such wide-sweeping wrongdoing to them was more than he could manage.

  Almost to the barn, he heard the kitchen door open and saw Lizzie and Tempy hurry out to join them. “Why do I get the feeling you were both waiting and watching?” he said, giving them a wry smile.

  They both ignored the comment and fell into step with the group. Roland caught a revived twinkle in Lizzie’s eyes and was glad to see it. She’d taken young James’s death especially hard. But what she’d done on that young man’s deathbed . . . answering him as she had. Roland felt a stirring in his chest just remembering it. She would indeed make a fine mother to Towny’s and her children someday.

  Once inside in the barn, Roland stood for a second and let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The comforting scents of leather and horseflesh surrounded him. It smelled like home. And childhood.

  “Come on back here, Cap’n.” George gestured.

  Roland followed him, hearing the others’ footsteps behind them, until George stopped in front of an empty stable. Roland peered inside and frowned. A pulley system of some sort hung from the back of the stable, complete with ropes looped and coming off with something tied to . . .

  Roland looked from George to the doc. “What is all this?”

  “This, Captain Jones”—Phillips stepped forward and picked up one looped end of a rope and pulled, lifting a weight that had been tied on the other end—“is you regaining your strength.”

  Roland watched as Phillips demonstrated and explained how the contraption worked. It was primitive in design. And simple. But also . . . genius. At the doc’s urging, Roland tried it with his left hand. Then with what was left of his right, slipping his forearm through the loop in the rope.

  Phillips picked up a separate rope. “Now try this one on your legs.”

  George retrieved something resembling a two-sided ladder with fewer rungs that was leaned up against the wall. “Settle back onto this, Cap’n. It’ll help keep you upright when you doin’ your legs. That is, ’til you can balance again on your own. Which’ll come about soon enough, I know.”

  Roland did as they said. And though lifting the weight, light as it was, with his right leg brought a fair amount of discomfort, it wasn’t the shooting pain he’d experienced before. He attempted it again with his left and lifted the weight even higher. He exhaled, more than pleased. “Doc, this is really something. You’ve outdone yourself.”

  Phillips shook his head. “It wasn’t me, Captain.” He nodded. “It was all George here. From start to finish.”

  Roland frowned but read confirmation in the doc’s face. Roland looked over at George. “You did this? For me?”

  George gave a single nod. “Yes, sir, Cap’n. We gotta get you back to healthy so you can get home. Back to your mother and sisters. And to the farm.”

  Roland’s throat tightened. He looked from George to the contraption he’d built and back again, feeling Lizzie’s attention on him. Tempy’s too. Did this mean George wasn’t planning on leaving as all the other slaves had done? Roland wasn’t about to ask. But for the first time in a long time, he felt a trickle of hope. He cleared his throat, careful not to look in Lizzie’s direction.

  “You did well, George,” he finally managed. “You did well.”

  Two days later, Lizzie peered inside Winder’s bedroom. But Roland wasn’t there. Her gaze trailed to the empty bed, and tears lodged in her throat. She pulled the photograph of James and his brother Thomas from her skirt pocket, along with the page from the book of Psalms. You three precious boys . . . May you rest in his peace. And, Lord, would you please provide a way for me to get Thaddeus’s message to his mother? Wherever she is.

  Winder was taking James’s death especially hard, but Colonel and Mrs. McGavock were spending additional time with him, helping him cope. Even with a house still full of soldiers, it felt especially empty without James.

  “You lookin’ for the cap’n, Miss Lizzie?”

  Lizzie turned to see George coming up the stairs, fresh linens in his arms. “Yes, I am.” She returned the keepsakes to her po
cket.

  “He’s sittin’ out yonder on the back porch. Enjoyin’ what’s left of this fine day.”

  She glanced in that direction. “A letter came for him earlier this afternoon, so I thought I’d bring it up.” She didn’t need an excuse to see Roland, she knew. Especially now. She hadn’t told him yet about Towny’s recent homecoming. She simply hadn’t found the right time. But that was an excuse, and she knew it. The real reason was curled cold and tight in the pit of her stomach.

  George held out his hand. “Want me to take it out to him, ma’am?”

  “Oh no. That’s all right. I don’t mind. But thank you.”

  He looked at her a little overlong before he walked on toward Hattie’s room, and she wondered if her feelings were written as clearly on her face as she suspected they were. The jib window in the guest room stood partially open, and she found Roland sitting alone on the northwest corner of the porch overlooking the backyard and the battlefield beyond, his crutches leaning up against the railing.

  It was good to see him sitting upright in a chair these days. Even better to briefly watch him yesterday morning working the weights and pulley system George had constructed. She’d seen Roland and George go back to the barn that afternoon, then again last evening. She didn’t know if it was his finally being mobile again, but she’d noticed a subtle difference in Roland. His shock when discovering that George, and not Dr. Phillips, was responsible for constructing the mechanism had been telling as well. Was it George’s ingenuity that had surprised him? Or the obvious care and concern behind the action that had touched him most?

  Her footsteps announced her entrance, and he glanced back.

  “Evening, Lizzie.” He gestured to the chair to his right. “Please join me. But you might want to grab a blanket. It’s been pleasant, but it’ll get chillier once the sun goes down.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She claimed the rocker beside him, the simple act feeling as natural as if she’d done it a thousand times. “You received a letter today.”