Daniel's Desire
Callie Hutton
Avon, Massachusetts
To my goddaughter, Rosemarie. This one’s for you.
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
Copyright © 2012 by Callie Hutton
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5897-3
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5897-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5898-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5898-6
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © istockphoto.com/Jay Boivin
Chapter One
March 1865
Camp Morton, Indianapolis
No sliver of moonlight, no campfires burning. Darkness covered Confederate soldier Lieutenant Daniel McCoy like a shroud. His heart pounded, blocking any sound to warn him of danger, of rapid footsteps in pursuit, or the click of metal before a bullet entered his body. A befitting end for a prison escapee. He stood like a statue to calm his racing heart and allow his eyes time to adjust. Not that it had been bright in the dingy hellhole he’d just left. The one where he’d spent the last month digging his way to freedom. A place where smallpox, cholera, and dysentery ran rampant, and men died screaming, or crying the name of a wife or sweetheart.
Deep voices carried over the night air from where two guards met. One sentry struck a flint to light his cigar, revealing their war-battled faces as they spoke in low tones. As always, the twang of their accent grated on his nerves. He moved deeper into the shadows until the soldiers separated, each going a different direction.
He took a deep breath and eyed the stables.
Too risky to steal a horse.
After the enemies’ footsteps died away, Daniel’s long strides covered the open area to the safety of the trees. Lack of exercise over the past months had taken a toll on his body, and his lungs burned from the short sprint. He eased behind a large oak, watching, waiting for an alarm to sound.
Silence.
His index finger and thumb rubbed the cool metal of the heavy ring tucked in his pocket. He’d stolen it back from the drunken Union soldier while he’d slept. Once again, the heirloom rested where it belonged. With him — a McCoy.
Sweat beaded his forehead and he took gulps of the damp night air before bending to empty his stomach of the last putrid meal they’d fed him. If it hadn’t been for the local residents of Indianapolis and their compassion toward the Confederate prisoners, providing the necessary food, clothing, and nursing to keep most of the prisoners alive, they’d probably all be dead.
The sentries made another pass, and still no shouts came from within the prison walls. Despite the cold, Lieutenant McCoy wiped sweat from his forehead, then slipped into the forest surrounding the Union camp. The sound of his panting echoed off the trees as he picked up the pace and stumbled over small roots and animal holes in the dark. He raced to the bank of the White River, waded into the mud and silt, and dove into the icy water. With strong strokes, he swam from the cursed prison.
After nine long months in hell, he breathed free air.
• • •
Johnson County, Indiana
“Mama, can I get you some tea?”
Rosemarie Wilson eased her heavy eyelids open and attempted to smile with dry, cracked lips at her eight-year-old son, Chandler. The frown on his pale face tore at her.
“No thank you. Just look after your sister and brother.” She shifted on the bed, struggling to relieve the throbbing pain in her leg. Black dots danced before her eyes at the movement, and her stiff fingers grabbed the patchwork quilt to control the dizziness and nausea. She raised her head from the pillow and moved the blanket from her leg. The smell from the festering cut on her right calf, where the axe had sliced, terrified her. She’d cleaned it after the accident as best she could, but the jerky, uneven stitches she’d put in herself hadn’t helped the healing.
At least the gash wasn’t deep. If her leg had been only inches closer to the wood when the axe slipped, she might have cut herself right to the bone.
Tears slid down her cheeks as life ebbed from her weary body. She’d used so much of her strength trying to keep the farm going after a band of Confederate soldiers had swooped down a few months ago and taken just about everything they’d owned. Days later, she’d laid her husband of nine years to rest in the little plot under the elm tree behind the house. Dead from a bullet wound after one of the soldiers had shot him.
Damn this war, and everything it took from my family!
Another tear slid from her eye and landed on the thin nightgown covering her shoulder. Chandler’s voice drifted in through the bedroom door as he spoke to his younger brother and sister in the kitchen. Five-year-old Amelia balked at having leftover oatmeal for lunch. Several more tears joined the first one, and Rosemarie’s heart throbbed so hard her chest hurt. She closed her eyes against the pain and drifted into the welcoming oblivion of sleep.
• • •
Rays from bright sunshine seeped below the wooden shutters on the window, bathing Rosemarie’s face, forcing her to turn her head. Her body burned with heat.
If I could just have a drink of water.
She listened for a minute, uncomfortable at the silence that greeted her. Where were her children? “Chandler?” Her voice rasped.
No answer. She raised herself up on one elbow and called louder. Still no answer. Tears of pain and frustration gathered in her eyes.
Dear God, please help me.
Did God even listen to her anymore? She’d prayed all her life, always had faith. Even when her father sold her into marriage, she knelt and prayed for Hans to be a good man. Cold and stern, and not the man she would have chosen for herself, her husband had nevertheless provided well for her and their children. The three beautiful children the good Lord had blessed her with. Now their remaining parent was close to death.
• • •
Daniel spied the small farmhouse from half a mile away. The sun setting behind the clapboard structure bathed it in an ethereal glow. Three children sat on the front porch, huddled together in the cold. The biggest one rose and stared in his direction. Then the child hurried into the house, leaving the two smaller ones outside.
As Daniel moved closer, he expected an adult to appear at the front door, and braced himself to run. All he wanted from the farmer was a drink from his well, and he’d be on his way. After walking the entire morning, he hadn’t passed even one creek to ease his thirst.
The two smaller children turned toward the door as if someone spoke. They immediately got up, and holding hands, entered the house. Still no adult ventured out. Did someone stand at the window, ready to shoot? Indeed, in this part of the country he was the enemy, but his dirty and worn Confederate uniform wouldn’t be recognized from a distance, so he pressed on.
Unconsciously, his hand drifted to his pocket to rub the ring. He needed to move further south before the Union soldiers found him. One escaped Rebel would be inconsequential, but since he’d been designated one of the camp medics after a Union doctor had been sent to the fields, they would come after him. He’d hated abandoning his fellow Confederates, but very few would survive, and there wasn’t much he could have done, except pray as they died.
Fatigue washed over him as he approached the porch. If the owner approved, Daniel could quench his thirst, then crawl into the farmer’s barn and sleep for the night. His skin itched from where his clothes, still stiff from the mud in the river, rubbed against him.
The moment he set his foot on the bottom step, the distinct sound of a gun readying caught his attention. Within seconds, a young boy stepped out the door, the business end of a shotgun pointed straight at Daniel’s chest.
“Git off my property.” The child’s pale face resembled new snow. His ragged pants had been patched, but not washed in a while. Lines normally found on an adult’s face bracketed either side of his mouth.
Daniel raised both hands, palms facing the boy. “Son, I only want to get a drink of water from your well. Can you ask your pa to step out?”
“Git off, I said.” The shotgun wavered and the boy’s eyes narrowed.
Daniel backed away, keeping his hands in the air. He didn’t want the kid to accidently shoot him out of fear. “Can you tell me how far to the next town, then?”
“You a Reb?” The boy’s voice trembled.
“Yes, but I’m not here to hurt you or your family. I just want some water, and I’ll be on my way.” He slowly lowered his hands, but kept them in front of him, palms out. “Is your pa home?”
Tears sprung to the child’s eyes as he shook his head.
“Your ma?”
“Why do you wanna know?”
Daniel sighed. “I would like permission for a drink of water from your well, and maybe to sleep in your barn for the night.”
The two smaller children he’d spotted earlier came out the door and stood behind the older boy. The little girl, with long brown curls cascading down her back, took her fingers out of her tiny rosebud mouth and spoke. “Our mama is bad sick. Chan thinks she’s gonna die.”
“Quiet down, Amelia, and go back into the house. And take Jace with you.” The boy who Daniel assumed was Chan jerked his head in the direction of the door, his face flushed.
Amelia focused her huge blue eyes on Daniel. “Can you help our mama, mister?”
“Amelia!” Chan lowered the gun and faced his sister. “I said git back into the house.”
“Son, look at me.” Daniel spoke in a low voice, and didn’t move from his spot. The boy continued to grip the gun, but no longer pointed the thing at him.
“What?” He wiped tears on his sleeve, then raised the gun back up.
“Where’s your pa?”
Amelia spoke up again, moving to the edge of the porch. “Our pa is behind the house.”
He blew out a sigh of relief. “Can you fetch him for me?”
“Can’t.” She shook her head and stuck her fingers back into her mouth. The younger boy, not much more than a baby, came to the edge of the porch and started down the steps.
“Jace, git back here!” Chan lowered the gun again and grabbed for his brother.
Daniel directed his comments to Amelia. “Can I go around to the back of the house and speak with your pa?”
She shook her curly head again.
“Why not?”
“Pa died,” Jace lisped in a baby voice, big blue eyes riveted on him.
Daniel’s shoulders slumped and he looked at Chan. “Is your pa dead?”
The boy gave a quick nod, and raised the gun again. “Now git off my property. We don’t want no Rebs around here. You already done took everything we had.”
A reminder he stood in enemy territory. With the pa dead, and the ma so sick she didn’t come out to investigate, these children were in a heap of trouble. The oldest boy still peered at him with narrowed eyes, even though the younger boy and little girl had advanced down the steps and now stood right in front of him, watching him with huge eyes.
“Can you fix my mama, mister?” Amelia asked as she reached for her little brother’s hand.
Daniel’s heart seized at the serious situation. He needed to look at their mother, but it didn’t appear Chan would let him. No doubt he had reason to mistrust Confederates.
“Chan. Is that your name?” He spoke softly to the boy, who continued to swipe at his eyes. The kid seemed about to fall apart, but with a shaky arm, still managed to point the gun in his direction.
The boy ignored the question, but Daniel continued. “My name is Daniel McCoy, and I know a little bit about healing. Can I at least look at your ma?”
“No Reb is gonna touch Ma.”
“Chandler, I want Mama to get better.” Amelia burst into tears and wrapped her tiny arms around Daniel’s leg.
What a dilemma. One look at his sister and the little boy also began to wail, and grabbed his other leg.
“Chandler, please.” Daniel patted the two children on their heads, as he appealed to the boy. “Let me say hello to your ma. I won’t touch her, or do anything to upset her.” The boy hesitated, so he added, “You can keep your gun pointed at me the whole time.”
Apparently, those were the magic words because he lowered the gun and wiped his eyes once more. “All right. But I’ll be watchin’ you.”
The minute Daniel stepped into the small living room, his nostrils twitched with the smell of disease.