A Log Cabin Christmas (20 page)

J
edediah Harrington’s shoulder burned like it rested in the fireplace. The pain that had almost certainly woken him also indicated that something else was amiss. As he opened his eyes, he remained still, taking in his surroundings and trying to place the room.

It wasn’t an overly large room, but it felt as though families had grown and loved each other in this place. It looked like a home ought to, with a gentle blaze below the stone mantel at his back and a kitchen table and benches on the far side of the room. Even at the distance and with only the light from the fire, he could see that the corners of the furniture had been rounded by years of use. The only other place to sit was an equally worn wooden rocking chair.

Twisting slightly against wooden floorboards, he looked around until he spotted the skirts of a young woman near the foot of his bed. When his eyes made it to her face—all smooth lines, soft freckles and pink lips—she glanced up at the same moment and immediately darted to the other side of the rocking chair, holding it carefully between them.

“My papa is in the other room.” She stretched her finger over his head, but Jed didn’t have the strength to follow her movement again. Did he look like he was a danger to her? Certainly she thought so.

He managed a small nod, immediately regretting the way it made his head swim. Resting his ear against the thick blanket spread below him, he opened his mouth but found that he had no voice.

The woman took a tentative step around the chair, keeping one hand on it, probably to use as a weapon if he made a wrong move. “Do you need some water?”

Again he tried to speak. Again he met with the same outcome, so he offered an almost imperceptible nod, trying to limit the pounding behind his eyes. All but her lower half disappeared to the far side of the room, and water rang against the bottom of a tin cup.

He tried to swallow, his tongue like a desert, so he waited until she returned.

“Drink this,” she whispered as she knelt by his head. The tin cup she pressed to his lips tasted of metal, but the water tasted like rain in a drought. He tried to guzzle the entire contents of the cup, but she pulled it back every few swallows. “Not so fast. You’ll spill all over.”

Finally it was empty, and she stood and took several small steps away, as though their nearness had been too intimate for two people who had never been introduced. He immediately missed the sweet scent of lavender and gentle touch of her hand.

He cleared his throat and closed his eyes for a long moment. “My na—” His voice cracked, and he had to try again. “My name is Jedediah Harrington. Nearly everyone calls me Jed.”

She squinted as though uncertain if she would believe him. After a long pause, she whispered, “Cora Sinclair.”

The fractured grin he offered must have broken through at least one of her reserves, as she brought a hand to the high neckline at her throat but responded with a faint smile of her own.

“How did I end up here? Where are we?”

“I found you in the woods not far from here, so my grandfather and I brought you to our home. I removed a bullet from your shoulder and patched it up the best that I could.”

Suddenly the memories crashed through his mind. “I was shot by Confederate scouts. We’re about a mile from Franklin. There was a skirmish.” She confirmed his memory only with a quick motion of her head. “I was headed to Ft. Granger when I stumbled on the troops. I was just trying to get around them, and someone shot me off my horse. They took my weapons.” But had they taken the War Department missives he had been carrying to General Schofield?

His gaze darted around the room looking for his gear, for he knew that the leather satchel that had been hanging over his shoulder and across his chest no longer rested there.

“Where are my things?”

Cora glanced over her shoulder to a pile of neatly folded clothes on the floor near the door to the bedroom she had indicated earlier. “It’s all there. Your coat and vest and shirt.” She blinked long, fair eyelashes before continuing. “And your bag also.”

The missives could be of little use to General Schofield or anyone else at Fort Granger in the aftermath of the unexpected skirmish, but he could not afford for them to fall into enemy hands either.

Could he trust her to keep him safe until he could return to Washington? What if she had already called rebel troops to come and get him?

But if her intent was to turn him over, why hadn’t she left him to freeze?

Oh, and it had been bitter there beneath that tree. He had been there for at least three nights, blacking out for long stretches of time. But he’d never forget the cold. Somehow he’d pulled branches and leaves over himself, in an attempt to retain any heat still in his body, and it must have worked.

“Why did you bring me here?”

Lines appeared on her forehead, and she tilted her head to the side, escaped strands of her rippling hair falling over her shoulder. “I couldn’t leave you outside to die, could I?”

“I’m an officer in the Federal army. You’re from Tennessee.” He looked toward the ceiling, letting his gaze settle on the rough-hewn rafters. “Most would have.”

When he looked back, her face turned gentle, her blue eyes compassionate, and she sank into the rocking chair. “This is not my war. I have no stake in it.”

“No brothers? What about your father? A beau?” A sad smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and remorse pinched his stomach when he realized he was the cause of her sorrowed expression.

“My father died when I was very young, and my mother also. I was their only child, and I was raised by my grandfather and grandmother—she died last year. He’s all I have now.” Her gaze jumped to the bedroom door then returned to meet Jed’s. “I haven’t lost anyone I love, and the men here aren’t fighting to preserve my way of life.”

Her hand fluttered to the corners of the room, and he understood. She had never owned slaves, never owned a plantation or probably even concerned herself with politics. This war wasn’t her choice.

But could she really be as harmless as she seemed? Nashville had been under Northern control for several years, but nearly twenty miles south, this battle in Franklin only served as a reminder that many pledged their allegiance to their homeland, not to those in power.

She leaned closer. “You have nothing to fear from my grandfather or me,” she said, as though reading his mind. “You will be safe as long as you’re here.”

An unexpected chill swept his body, and Jed cringed as the muscles in his shoulder contracted, piercing the wound with fire again. He closed his eyes against the throbbing pain, Cora’s pretty face appearing on the back of his eyelids. He wouldn’t soon forget her tenderness or compassion.

Suddenly Cora’s cool hand rested on his cheek, her eyes studying his face.

“You should rest,” she whispered.

Doubts about her honesty seeped into his mind, and he wanted nothing more than to walk out of the cabin and return to his home, to Bess. If only he could push himself off the floor, put his coat back on, pick up his bag, and leave. But wishing did not give him the strength to do so, and he shivered again.

“Let me check your wound again.” She leaned over his back and rolled back the blanket covering his shoulders. She inhaled sharply as she jumped to her feet, quickly returning with fresh bandages in hand.

He could not refrain from flinching when an icy, wet cloth touched his bare skin.

“I’m sorry. I should have warned you.” The cloth swiped like hot coals over his back. “You’re bleeding again.”

“Of course.” He bit down on his bottom lip to keep from letting on how much pain even her gentle touch caused. It seemed like hours before she firmly pressed another bandage in place and secured it with a piece of cloth already wrapped around his chest.

As she pulled the cover back over his shoulders, he asked, “May I have another blanket?”

“Are you cold?”

“Yes.”

She spread another blanket over the layer already in place and then knelt beside his head, putting her palms on his cheeks and forehead. “You’re very warm. You shouldn’t feel cold.”

“I do.” A yawn caught him unaware, making him stutter. “So very cold.” He closed his eyes, and the pressure building at his temples begged him to succumb to a long night of sleep in front of a fire and free of the outdoor temperatures he’d suffered.

“Let me get you more water before you go to sleep.”

She scurried across the room, but he could not even ward off slumber until her return, as he sank into the darkness of oblivion.

H
ow is he?”

Cora glanced up from where she knelt by the captain as her grandfather carried in an armful of logs for the fire. “The same.” She pressed her palm to the cheek of the man on the floor. But his eyes didn’t move, and his face remained unchanged. “I made him drink more water, but he won’t eat.”

Papa unloaded the logs onto the pile next to the hearth, tossing a few of the smaller ones onto the already-radiating fire. “How does the wound look?”

Jed’s muscles twitched as Cora peeled back the sodden bandage. Even though she’d washed it and changed the bandage several times, the ragged flesh and pungent odor made her cringe every time.

“Do you think it’s getting any better?” She couldn’t keep the hopeful lilt out of her voice.

His hands on his hips and leaning clear forward, Papa shook his head. “It’s hard to tell. Truth be told, I’m more concerned about that fever.”

“I gave him some ginger tea.” She held up a half-empty teacup. “Well, as much as he would take. But it doesn’t seem to be helping.”

Still deep in sleep, Jed’s legs jerked. Cora shot her grandfather a helpless look and sighed.

“Keep pouring the tea down, but make sure it’s not too warm.” Papa sat on one of the benches along the table, his eyebrows drawn tight and usual smile a distant memory. “I don’t know that there’s anything else we can do for him.”

Cora’s stomach lurched, and she knew it to be true. The captain had suffered a fitful sleep for nearly two days, never fully waking up. She had done everything she knew to do. He needed a doctor. And she knew exactly where one could be found.

Certainly there were still surgeons tending to the wounded at Carnton. If the thick, black smoke rising over the tree line was any indication, all of the fires there burned day and night, for boiling water and cleaning surgical instruments. For the men. Those wounded soldiers.

They were in so much pain, and the chloroform administered by the doctors only numbed the injured. But the fires hadn’t blocked out the metallic smell of artillery fire still lingering in the air mixed with the sharp odor of unwashed bodies.

Her stomach jumped again, bile rising in the back of her throat as the memories of the injured men leaped to mind.

She didn’t want to go back there. Ever.

She didn’t want to see those men still recovering. Or have to again cross the field where so many soldiers had marched toward the Union line in Franklin.

“It’s getting late.” Papa dragged her from her thoughts. “Will you sleep in your bed tonight? You need to get some rest. I can stay by him. “

Cora’s gaze shifted to the single doorway on the far side of the room then back to her patient. “No. I’ll stay up with him. If there’s a change, I want to be here.” She dipped a clean rag in a basin of cool water, using it to bathe Captain Harrington’s face. Above his dark eyebrows, past his ear, and under his broad chin.
My, but he is handsome
. “Just in case.”

“All right. Good night then.” Papa walked past her and bent down to kiss the top of her head before disappearing into the dark bedroom. She heard him unsnap his suspenders and the rustle of cotton as he hung up his shirt. With the door all the way open, his rhythmic snoring soon echoed through the cabin as it did every night.

After cleaning and rebandaging the wound on the captain’s back one last time, Cora crawled to her rocking chair. Fighting sleep and the haunting dreams that waited just behind closed eyes, she picked up her mending, one ear always listening for a sound from the mat at her feet. Her eyelids drooped as she pushed the floor with her toe, the crackling of the fire and squeaking of the chair her only companions as her mending dropped to her lap.

The clock on the mantel chimed twice, jerking Cora from unwelcome images dancing through her dream. Wrapping her arms around her stomach, she curled as tightly as she could, trying to erase the faces of the men at Carnton who would never return to their loved loves. Uninvited tears leaked down her cheeks, and she swiped her knuckles across them, her heart broken for the families who’d lost their husbands and fathers, brothers and sons.

She shivered despite the heat from the smoldering embers.

Tossing another log on the fire before kneeling next to the captain, she brushed his hair from his forehead. Heat radiated off him stronger than ever before, while barely discernible chills made his teeth click together.

She pressed her hands to Jed’s cheeks. She barely knew him, yet she was responsible for him. Even though she’d never met the other woman, Cora owed it to Bess to make sure Jed returned home.

He needed a doctor and medication, but taking him to Carnton could meana fate worse than the one he faced on her floor. The Confederate troops at the main house wouldn’t look kindly on a Yankee. Even if he was an injured officer. If taken captive, the captain could spend the rest of the war—possibly the rest of his life—behind bars.

“I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” she whispered to the shadowed face. “What if you were sent to a prison, and I had no way of finding Bess to tell her what happened? Oh, Captain. You have to wake up.” A single tear slipped down Cora’s cheek, as she sent up a silent prayer for his healing.

The air smelled of frying ham, the meat sizzling not far from where Jed lay, still on the floor. For the first time in days his stomach rumbled, a not-altogether-unpleasant sensation for a man who had thought his life was coming to a slow and painful end.

When he twitched his shoulders, pain eased through his back, rolling through the muscles like gentle waves on the beach. Heaving a sigh of relief that it no longer burned like an unquenchable fire, he ventured to open an eye and lifted his hand to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead.

Suddenly a pan crashed to the floor, and a familiar voice hollered, “You’re awake!”

In a flurry of skirts, Cora knelt beside him, her cool fingers paradise on his cheek. “I supp–ose I am.” His voice cracked with disuse, but she ignored him as her soprano filled the room.

“I was so worried. Your fever just kept getting worse and worse last night. I tried to give you ginger tea, but you wouldn’t drink much of it. This morning I thought you might be getting better, but I couldn’t be certain.” As they locked eyes, her hands ran over his face and down his neck before she jerked back, her cheeks tinged pink and gaze dropping to the floor. “How do you feel?”

Jed barely suppressed a grin at her familiar actions. He couldn’t blame her. She’d clearly been watching over him for days, and he had no objections to a pretty gal touching him like that. “Better.” He wheezed, and she rose to her feet like a doe in the morning light. When she returned with a cup of water in hand, she lowered herself just as gracefully.

“Drink.”

He did as ordered, gulping greedily as she held tin to his lips. When the water was gone, he rested his head back on the mat, taking several deep breaths. A sharp aroma mixed with the woodsy scent of the fire and spicy lye soap that had certainly been used to clean the blankets on which he slept.

“Is something burning?”

Cora’s eyes grew round as she scrambled to her feet, all sense of graceabandoned. She muttered to herself as a skillet sizzled and clanked against the small cast-iron stove in the corner next to table.

“I’ve ruined dinner.” She sighed to no one in particular just as the hinge on the front door lifted and her grandfather stepped inside.

“Well, well. It’s good to see that you’re awake finally,” the old man said. He squatted near Jed’s feet, eyeing him with equal parts suspicion and interest. “How do you feel?”

Jed twisted to get a better view of the wrinkled features, not sure if there was more to the question than what the other man had said. “Better, sir. I appreciate your hospitality. You and Miss Sinclair have been more than kind.”

Nodding thoughtfully, the man slapped his own thigh as he stood. “Well, if you’re going to stay here awhile, you might as well call me Horace.”

“Very well. Will you call me Jed, then?”

Horace nodded, putting his fists on his hips. “Do you feel well enough to sit up, Jed?”

“I’m not sure. Shall we give it a try?”

Maneuvering Jed into a seated position turned into quite the ordeal even with Cora and her grandfather at each of his elbows. By the time he leaned against the log wall, cool gusts of wind seeping through cracks in the chinking between the old logs, he needed to lie down again. But he fought the drowsiness as Cora handed him a bowl filled with a thin broth. As he tried to lift the spoon to his mouth, it clattered back into the bowl.

Immediately by his side, Cora offered him a gentle smile. “May I help you?” She didn’t hold out her hand for the bowl or even move to take it back, but her posture indicated immediate help should he ask for it.

“I can do it.” Making a fist with his right hand several times, he stretched and practiced the movements. Forearms crying for mercy after days of disuse, on the third try he managed to get a half spoonful of brown liquid to his mouth. It tasted better than any feast at his mother’s table in Maryland ever had.

After finishing more than half of his evening meal, he set the bowl aside and leaned his head back as the old man opened the big Bible and read aloud the story of Ruth and Boaz.

Cora’s eyes remained firmly on the red fabric in her hands, her needle never slowing. Maybe it was the fresh log on the fire or just Jed’s imagination, but Cora’s cheeks seemed to glow with extra color when Mr. Sinclair reached the end of the story.

Had Cora slept at the foot of his bed like Ruth had with Boaz?

What a foolish thought to have about a woman he’d barely met. He hadn’t thought to be married since the war began, but if he had a wife as kind andpretty as Cora, perhaps he might think on it more. But there was no use. He would be moving along shortly. Mrs. Puckett wouldn’t hold his room at the boardinghouse for long. And first there would be a stop at the farm in rural Maryland, tucked between rolling green hills.

Bess would be there, and she deserved an explanation, even if he had none to give.

When the Bible was safely stored on the kitchen armoire, Mr. Sinclair excused himself to look in on their only remaining livestock. “When the Army of Tennessee came through and took our horse and chickens back in sixty-two, we couldn’t pay them to take that hog off our hands.” He laughed.

His exit seemed Cora’s cue to put away her sewing. As she walked past him toward the bedroom, she stopped but did not turn to face him. “Papa will help you lie down to sleep tonight.” She took another step then thought better of it. “You should put an address on your letter to Bess in case you ever need to mail it.”

His eyebrows pulled tightly together. “Did you read that letter? You had no right.” He hadn’t even read it.

“It fell out of the pocket of your jacket as I was folding it.” Her head dipped low. “And a wife has a right to know if her husband isn’t coming home.”

Jed nodded slowly. “I agree. That’s why I’m taking it to her.”

Her gaze sought his, blue eyes reflecting the flickering flames. “I don’t understand.”

“Bess is my sister. Her husband and I were on an assignment together.” The lump in his throat refused to be cleared, so his words sounded like a bullfrog. “And he won’t be returning to her.”

If only they hadn’t been separated. If only Grant hadn’t run into those scouts. If only.

Cora blinked several times, biting on her lips so hard that they disappeared. “I am sorry for your sister. And for you, as well.”

“Thank you.” Jed sighed quietly. “If you’re sad for anyone, it should be my nephew, Matthew. He’ll never know his father, who was a good man. Grant took good care of my sister, and he was shaping up to be a good father to that little one.”

“Do you have a letter like that for your wife?”

“My wife?” She nodded, as though encouraging his memory. “I’m not married.”

“There must be someone waiting for you.”

He shook his head. “Just Bess and my parents.”

Her hand shot to her cheek, covering something that looked like relief. “They deserve letters, too, I think.” With that she bolted from the room, disappearing into the bedroom and closing the door softly.

If she’d given him a chance, he’d have told her. He had letters for them. Letters in envelopes, addressed to his childhood home. But he wouldn’t need to have them sent yet.