The Vacant Chair (4 page)

She pulled her wrists free and held his burning fingers, clenched tight around hers. He couldn’t recognize her. He was too incoherent. His touch jarred her deep inside, echoing through her.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, “I tried…” His face filled with grief, making her stomach knot. “Tried to help him… Couldn’t get to him in time. So sorry…”

Helpless to ease his pain, Brianna spoke to him in a low voice, aware that most of the conscious men in the tent were awake, riveted to the scene before them. She touched his scalding cheek. “It’s all right.” He gripped her other hand and she let him. “No one is angry with you. You were brave and you did your duty. Lie still now. You need to sleep so your body can heal.” She kept her voice quiet, sure.

The words must have reached him through the hallucinations because his eyes lost their panic and the hold on her fingers loosened. But he didn’t let go, and a tiny part of her was glad that her touch seemed to comfort him.

Brianna stayed beside him until he fell asleep, though dread formed in her gut as she recalled the wildness in his eyes. It might have been the high temperature, but maybe he did have a brain injury. She bathed his flushed face with cool water, haunted by his tortured gaze. They’d know by morning if he would survive or not.

Covering him up tight, she left him and blew out the lamp, saying a quick prayer for him. If he could make it through the night, the odds of him pulling through were good. There was still a chance he could survive the shock and the loss of blood, but only if the fever didn’t claim him first.

Chapter Four

The healing hands were on him again. Gentle, soothing hands he’d felt before, so different from all the others that touched him. Hers. Justin recognized them because they were soft and comforting and brought the scent of Christmas baking.  

The hands stroked a cool cloth over his face and throat, down his chest. Heaven. Another swept across his cheek and up to smooth the hair back from his forehead.

He sighed, floating somewhere between dream and consciousness, savoring the feel of those magical hands. Then pain began to register, radiating throughout his body until he was afraid to breathe.

Justin surfaced slowly. A searing throb persisted in left his side and a relentless ache pounded in his head. He couldn’t seem to open his eyes so he lay there, listening. The tormented cries were gone, the rumbling of cannon silenced. Only the occasional cough broke the quiet.

He noticed a new smell, a fresh scent like disinfectant and air touched with pine. Clean, crisp sheets met his fingers as he groped around and forced his heavy eyelids to lift. White light blinded him. He squinted against the sudden stab of pain in his eyes, blinking while his vision adjusted.

A swish of cool air hit his face, and he glanced up at the woman at his bedside. The light streaming in from behind her gave her the look of an angel, and he wondered if he had died and wound up in heaven.

But if you were in heaven, you wouldn’t still be in pain.

Yes, there was that.

The angel was smiling at him, fanning his hot skin. Her deliciously cool hand lay upon his brow as she spoke. “Well, hello there. You had me worried.”

He stared back at her, gathering his thoughts. She seemed familiar somehow, but he didn’t know why. Her eyes were a pretty, clear gray.

“I’m Mrs. Taylor, one of your nurses. You’re in the hospital at White House Landing.”

A hospital. God, he’d been shot, hadn’t he? He struggled to remember what had happened, slid a hand down his chest and found the bandages over the ribs on his left side. He covered a wince as the wound seared beneath the light pressure of his fingers.

“Are you thirsty?”

He tried to speak, but his voice failed him. His mouth and throat were so dry he felt like a parched desert, desperate for a drop of rain.

In answer to his silent plea, the angel nurse raised his head in the crook of her arm and placed the cold, hard rim of a glass to his lips. His dehydrated body cried out for the wet, sweet liquid that covered his burning tongue. It felt so good he wanted to moan, but that would hurt even more.

Her touch was light as she ministered to him. Calming. She patiently refilled the glass and let him drink in slow sips. Her manner was steady, unhurried, incredibly soothing. But even that small amount of water seemed to gurgle in his gut, wanting to come back up. The muscles in his jaw tightened, his mouth pooling with saliva. He broke out in a clammy sweat as a bolt of panic hit him.
Oh, God, don’t let me throw up—

“More?”

Justin swallowed and shook his head slightly, and the movement proved too much for his stomach. Damn thing violently emptied its meager contents, oblivious that it did so in front of a beautiful woman.

Oh, dear God in heaven, it hurt. The heaving continued without mercy, even when there was nothing left to come up and tears were leaking from his eyes. His left side felt like it might tear open, burning as though someone had plunged a white-hot branding iron between his ribs.

Agony engulfed him with each convulsion, leaving him breathless and afraid to move when he finally collapsed against the pillow. Gasping, mortified, he recovered to see his nurse calmly placing a pan full of watery vomit on the bedside table. She wiped his face, gave him a little more water to rinse his mouth and brushed back his hair. A humiliated flush heated his cheeks. He’d never felt more miserable in all his life.

“Please, Captain, don’t be embarrassed. You’ve been terribly ill.” Her smoke-gray eyes rested on his face like a caress. “I’ll go get you some clean bedding and something light to eat to settle your stomach.” She had the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. A dimple appeared in her right cheek at the hint of a smile. “Try and rest while I’m gone. You need to build up your strength.” She put a hand beneath his shoulder and one on his hip then carefully turned him onto his uninjured side, whisked the soiled bedding off the cot and covered him with a warm blanket before making her way into the bright daylight.

The pain seemed to worsen when she left.

Justin closed his eyes. His insides were on fire and he had to fight back the residual waves of nausea that washed over him. He tried to focus on his breathing to numb some of the pain, letting exhaustion overtake him. When he began to drift into a troubled doze, the memories came flooding back.

The screams of wounded men and horses, whining bullets…and his brother’s body lying in the dirt.

Mitch.

He jerked awake, hissed at the pain shooting in his side.

Christ, was Mitch dead? A film of sweat settled over him. His heart throbbed so hard he thought he might be sick again. The fear snaked through him, twisted his gut.

“Captain?”

He opened his eyes. The pretty nurse stood at the foot of his bed, holding an armful of linens.

“Are you all right?”

He couldn’t answer, couldn’t seem to catch his breath, dragging shallow gulps of air into his aching lungs, every motion of his ribs painful.

“Are you all right?” she repeated, a frown creasing her brow.

No. My brother was hit.
He glanced away and cleared his throat, his voice hoarse when he spoke. “Yes.”

Shutting out the image of his brother hitting the ground, Justin concentrated on his nurse. God, those eyes. He’d seen them before.

Her smile was full of concern. “I hope Boy-o escaped the same fate as his master.”

The breath froze in his lungs as he finally realized who she was, and the flames lit off in his side again. “Yes.” He couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognized her sooner. Maybe she’d know about Mitch.

“What’s your name?”

He cleared his throat. “Justin. Thompson.” He felt as weak as a newborn colt.

“Hello again, Captain Thompson. I’m only sorry we had to meet again under these circumstances.”

He swallowed, aware of how close he’d come to dying. Unless he still might? The pain in his side he could deal with. What he didn’t know how to cope with was the agony of losing his only brother.

“I’m going to put some clean sheets on your bed. Just lie still and let me turn you.” Her strength surprised him as she slowly maneuvered him once more, using her hip to keep him from shifting. Within minutes she had him comfortably settled on his back in fresh bedding and a clean pillow tucked beneath his head. Her hand smoothed his hair, something she seemed to do often, and he had to stop himself from resting his cheek into her palm for comfort.

“I bet you’d like something to eat?”

He attempted to shake his head, but the movement made him long to retch again.

“Once you get something in your stomach, you won’t be as nauseated.” She sat in a chair beside his bed and brought a spoon filled with broth to his lips.

He took it reluctantly but found if he sipped slowly, his stomach could tolerate the tepid liquid. After a few spoonfuls, he paused to rest.

“More?” She lifted her eyebrows in invitation.

“Please.” He finished it all and turned his attention to her.

“I promise we’ll take good care of you here, but for now I should leave you to sleep.” She wiped his face with a cool cloth. It felt wonderful. “I’ll come back to check on you later.” She gathered up the dishes and stepped away.

“Wait.” He lifted his right hand in protest, hating how weak he was. “Have you seen my brother?”

She frowned and tilted her head. “What’s his name?” 

“Mitchell. He's a corporal…Fifth Michigan Cavalry. He was with me at Cold Harbor. We look alike.” He gasped as a fresh wave of pain sliced through his side. He put a hand to his ribs, took a moment to gather his strength. “I don’t know what happened to him.”

Her clear eyes held his. “I haven’t seen him, Captain, but I’ll find out if anyone else here has.”

“He was shot.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”  God, he’d never forget the sight of his brother lying on the ground.

“He could be here. There are so many. And even if he’s not, it doesn’t mean anything bad has… I’ll find out,” she promised.

“Thank you.” He prayed someone had news of Mitch.

“He’s doing extremely well. Much better than I anticipated.” Dr. Healey’s voice was low as he re-bandaged the wound in Captain Thompson’s side and stepped away from the bed.

The tension in Brianna’s stomach eased enough to allow her a full breath of air. Her first since the doctor had begun his examination a few minutes ago. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“If things continue to improve at this rate, he could be up and about in a few days.”

Careful to hide her smile, Brianna bent to adjust the pillow that propped the captain’s arm up and away from the bandages on his ribs. He’d slept most of the afternoon and through their whispered conversation, but the instant she touched him, he opened startled, sleepy blue eyes and focused on her.

“Sorry I woke you,” she murmured, fighting the growing heat and awareness in her body under the power of that gaze. Her breasts tightened and tingled, a completely inappropriate reaction that embarrassed her.

A slow smile curved his lips. “I’m not. Means I’m still alive.”

“How is your pain?” Congratulating herself on her professional demeanor despite the havoc transpiring in her body, Brianna straightened.

“Bearable. Just tired.”

Her fingers itched to smooth a lock of hair back from his forehead.

“Go back to sleep, then,” Dr. Healey told him. “You need the rest.”

The captain nodded, his eyes sliding closed as though his lids were too heavy to keep open. Brianna stared down at him for a few moments, watching him sleep before following the surgeon to the next bed. Somewhere in his thirties, the new patient was a powerfully built man with a kind face and friendly green eyes.

A tight smile appeared beneath his heavy beard. “Hello, doc.” His voice was raspy and weak.

“Hello, Tim. How are you feeling today?”

Tim shifted under the blanket, his restricted movements telling her he was in a great deal of pain. “I believe I’m better than yesterday.”

Without thinking, Brianna leaned down to straighten the blankets over him and barely concealed the gasp that rose in her throat. Beneath a thin covering of linen bandages, two large bullet holes bled through from his chest. They must have punctured his lungs, explaining the wheezing quality of his breath.

She cast a glance at Healey, then met Tim’s steady gaze. The wounds were mortal, promising a horrific, suffocating death. Did he know? He had to be in unspeakable agony, fighting for every breath. 

With unsteady fingers, she tugged the blanket up over the wounds, shaken by the sad green eyes that watched her. “It’s bad, isn’t it, ma’am?” The sagging of his body told her he had accepted his fate.

What could she say? Brianna bit down on the inside of her cheek. She searched for the right words but found none, and pressed her lips together to keep from blurting something silly. Or choking up. Something she hadn’t done since she’d first started nursing.

As though sensing her distress, Tim gave a tired smile. “Don’t do that, ma’am, please. I’m strong as an ox. Isn’t that right, doc?”

“He’s right, Brianna.”

It was unusual for Healey to drop formality and address her by her given name, let alone in front of anyone. Her attempt at a smile was futile at best. She was thoroughly sick of this damned war and the senseless butchering of these brave, stoic men.

Tim’s face held a wistful expression. “Brianna,” he murmured, as though testing the sound of her name on his lips.

Ten minutes later when he was fast asleep, she turned helpless eyes to her favorite doctor. “What can we do?”

Healey shook his head. “War is so cruel.” 

Cruel wasn’t near strong enough. War was suffering, agony and death. Her only comfort at the hospital was that her work offered something good to the mutilated and the dying. With every pass of a damp sponge over fevered skin, she offered kindness, compassion. Every murmured word, every touch she hoped brought some measure of peace. Maybe even hope.

Dr. Healey smiled at her, trying to buoy her spirits. “You have a miraculous effect on the men. It wouldn’t surprise me if Tim recovers as nicely as Captain Thompson has.”

She stole a quick glance over her shoulder at the patient in question. The memory of those deep blue eyes and melting smile made her heart flutter, and she was careful to hide it. She was already much too aware of him as a man, rather than a patient. It baffled and annoyed her, because she had no business thinking about him as anything
but
a patient. She’d been so certain she’d never be interested in a man again. Now, despite her barely knowing him, this officer was somehow slipping through the wall she’d erected.