The Wicked North (Hearts Touched By Fire Book 1) (28 page)

“Clean that blood off so I can take a better look.”

She nodded and he left.

The sponge emitted an odd odor, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. Putting the sponge down, she reached underneath her gown and ripped off a section of her petticoat. The sponge would be more absorbent, but she refused to use it because of the way it smelled. Plunging the piece of petticoat into the water, she washed the blood and gunpowder from Jack.

Jack opened his eyes and stared at her. “Emma,” he whispered.

She gave him a weak smile. “Shush now.” But he had passed out again.

Judd returned, a pained look on his face as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Surgeon’s too damn busy.” 

“Can’t you fix him?” she asked, desperation creeping into her voice.

He shook his head. “I’m not a fully trained doctor…”

“Do you know what will happen if he isn’t seen soon?”

“Yes,” he muttered. “Same thing if they see him now. They’ll take his arm.”

She gasped. “His wound’s in the shoulder.”

He gave her a hard look, but then it softened. “They’ll take it all up through the shoulder blade unless the bullet can be found.”

“Then find it,” she demanded.

“They’d probably still amputate to make sure there’s no gangrene.”

Emma’s mind whirled, remembering Billy and the pain he had endured after his leg was amputated. He was so miserable that he’d gladly sacrificed himself for his family. For her. Anger and anguish fought for control. Her fists clenched at her sides, and she felt the weight of the revolver in the coat pocket. A loaded revolver.

“Then he can’t stay here,” she said, her voice tight.

“And where would you take him?”

Her mind raced. The trip back to the camp was too far. Being jostled on horseback would hurt Jack further, if he even survived the trip.

Judd eyed her speculatively, lowering his gaze to the bulge in her pocket. A mixture of emotions played across his face, wavering between refusal and resignation. With a tired sigh, he muttered, “There is a house, a shack really, just beyond camp. I know the officer using it. Ain’t seen him in a while but reckon’ maybe I could convince him to give it up for a, uh, nurse.”

“He’d do that? For a ‘nurse’ who cares for only one man?” She didn’t believe him. She stroked the gun, not wanting to use it, but…

Judd snorted. In a voice so low only she could hear it, he stated, “Where d’you think I get my ‘medicinal’ whiskey from?”

She suddenly understood and nodded. She’d do anything to save Jack.

Judd persuaded a couple of wary musicians to move Jack. Neither questioned why one officer should be moved to private quarters when no one else of his rank had been. Judd led the way, his bag in hand, and they put Jack on the cot in the shack as Emma lit the lamps. The shack wasn’t much bigger than her bedroom at Rose Hill. It had a fireplace, a tiny table and two chairs, a cot and one window. Though bleak, it was perfect for Jack.

Judd and Emma pried the uniform jacket, vest, suspenders and shirt off Jack. He moaned as they twisted his body to take off all the soiled clothes. His wound started to bleed again.

She placed her hand on his forehead. “He’s going to burn with fever soon if we don’t get that out.”

Judd paced the room, running his hand nervously through his blond hair. “I’ll never get anyone here fast enough.”

“At least look for the bullet,” she begged. She hoped if he could find it, he could remove it. She’d grovel if she had to.

His eyes narrowed, his jaw ticked. Swiftly, he went to his box and removed a metal wand, the one with the porcelain tips that she’d picked up earlier. “Where’s that flask? I ain’t got no water here.”

Emma pulled it out of her coat pocket and then placed the coat on the chair. The cabin was cool and Judd stoked the embers but claimed the cool air would help Jack, slow his bleeding. She’d try to remember that as she shivered, holding the lamp above the wound as the steward splashed whiskey on the wand.

“Hold that back,” he ordered. When she withdrew the lamp, he poured whiskey onto the wound. Jack shot upright and yelled, his eyes wide open in pain as the alcohol burned into his shoulder. And just as promptly, he fell back into oblivion.

Judd motioned for the light and gingerly stuck the probe into the hole. Emma watched him. The man’s hand shook, and a fine sweat formed on his upper lip and forehead as he paled, moving the rod around till he struck something. He withdrew it and looked at the white end that was no longer white. It was gray. He smiled.

“Found it.” He stood up and stepped back.

“Then take it out.”

He shook his head adamantly. Fear had come over him. Emma frowned.

“You have to.”

“I can’t,” he argued. “Not trained to.”

“He needs your help,” she implored.

“No!” He walked away and came right back. “They won’t let me do things like that.”

Frustration took control of her. Reaching for the coat, she yanked the revolver from the pocket and pulled the hammer back as she pointed the muzzle at his chest. “Yes, you will.”

Raising his hands, he looked at her. “I can’t.” His hands shook violently and all the color had drained from his face. He was terrified.

It suddenly dawned on her. The man’s flask wasn’t for medicinal use. He was a drunkard.

She released the hammer and lowered the weapon, devastated. Putting the gun down, she looked at Judd’s tools and saw a long pair of tongs. “Teach me.”

He flinched at her determination but nodded. They went back to the cot. He poured a bit of whiskey on the instrument and handed it to her.

“Carefully search for the bullet again. It’s down to the left. Don’t push it. We don’t want it to go deeper. Then, insert the tongs, closed, till you get to the cartridge.” He swallowed hard. “I’ll hold him down. It’ll hurt him, but if he’s going to live, we gotta get that out.”

She nodded and, with the utmost care, followed his instructions. Jack jerked when she placed the bullet extractor into his flesh, and the steward barely had enough strength to hold him down. She grasped the bullet and Jack moaned as she withdrew it. The bloody, misshapen lead came out and she dropped it on the floor.

“Give me your petticoat,” Judd ordered, pressing the wound shut as it bled.

She turned away from him and reached underneath her skirt to unbutton her petticoat. It fell to the floor and she stepped out of it to hand it to him. He wadded up the garment up and pressed it against Jack’s shoulder.

The realization of what she had done to Jack struck her, and she began to tremble. Judd grabbed her hand, dragging her to his side of the bed and placing the hand where his was. “Press hard. I’ll need to stitch it up.”

She nodded, only vaguely aware of what he was doing. She was too focused on Jack.

Judd pried off her hand and used the curved needle and black silk thread to stitch the hole closed with three easy loops. “You’ll have to take him.”

She looked at him. “Where? Why can’t we stay here?”

“If command finds out I’ve helped you with this, I’ll be in trouble and your husband placed under the surgeon’s care. Regardless of whether he lives or not with what we did, it won’t matter to them. I’m not qualified to practice, and they’d never take you as being a whit of good. They’d decide amputation was still better and saw his arm off anyway.”

“But is it safe for him to travel? Look at him!” She panicked. It was late, freezing out, and she’d no idea where her horse was, let alone Jack’s.

The steward laughed nervously. “Ain’t no choice. Look, rest for now. Somehow, I’ll find his horse or a horse and blankets and some pain killers for you to take. The surgeons will be busy for a while yet, but the rest gotta sleep. This fight ain’t over yet. We’re still here and so are they, so guns’ll be firing tomorrow too. You need to leave tonight.”

Her bottom lip trembled although she fought to control it. All she could do was give him a quick nod.

He smiled at her and touched her arm. “You’re a brave woman. Because of you, he still has an arm and possibly a chance to live. Next thirty-six hours will be the hardest. Fever’ll set in. If his arm turns black, then he’s a goner. Gangrene. Nasty way to go.” He shook his head in disgust. “He looks strong and going with you, his chances are better than if you stayed here.” He walked to the door. “Don’t be lettin’ no one else in. I’ll be back before long.” And he slipped out the door.

Jack moved restlessly on the bed. She went to him. “Oh, Jack,” she cried, tears falling freely down her cheeks. He felt warm, his face flush. He murmured incoherently and she shuddered.

How on God’s green earth was she ever going to get him out of here? She looked upward, and her heart cried out, praying to a God who had tormented her for loving the wrong man.

Our condition is horrible…Troops utterly disorganized and demoralized. Road almost impassable. No provisions and no forage.

—General Braxton Bragg, April 8, 1862

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Pain. Sharp, deep, unrelenting pain. If he remained still, it pulsed only in his left shoulder, but if he moved, it radiated throughout his body. He moved as little as possible but sometimes had no choice. Periodically, his mouth was forced open and a bitter, biting liquid was poured down his throat. He’d cough it up if he could, but he lacked the strength.

The sounds of violence became faint and the air grew still. He sometimes thought he was dead until movement sent a godawful anguish through his nerves and muscles. But the “poison” had begun to lull his pain as it muddled his already foggy mind. Despite the hard cradle he occupied, he slipped into merciful oblivion and darkness.

When Jack eventually woke, eyes wide, he didn’t move. He was physically drained. The rope bed cut into his back and buttocks. He felt damp and uncomfortable. The bedclothes were soaked, as though he’d had a fever that recently broke. He propped up on his elbows, but the shock of pain from his shoulder caused him to collapse in agony. Regaining his breath, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself to a sitting position and felt slightly cooler. His gaze swept the room.

A wood slat ceiling, logged walls, two doors and a window. He saw a chest and a table with two chairs. And in one of the chairs sat John Henry, a stern look on his face, a revolver in his hand. The muzzle was pointed at Jack.

What the hell had happened?

The door opened and Emma walked in with a pot and an armful of linen.

“Jack,” she murmured, a concerned look on her face.

His angel. She hadn’t left him. He glanced back at her father.

She followed his eyes and put down what she had been carrying.

“Daddy, please,” she pleaded, taking the revolver by the barrel, as though it was just candy and he a child.

“Caroline, don’t…”

“I’m Emma, daddy.” She sighed deeply, aggravated about having to correct him so often. She steered him toward the doorway. “Why don’t you get me some more firewood from the next room, near the fireplace there?”

With a turn, she was at Jack’s side, her palm on his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

That touch, oh yes, he remembered her light touch. “Weak. My arm hurts.”

She grinned. “Yes, well, you were shot.” She felt his bindings, her fingers working the knot.

He grasped her wrist. “I don’t understand. I was on the battlefield. What happened?”

Her lips quivered. “Why don’t we see about getting some clothes on you?”

He couldn’t move. The pain reached behind his eyes. His mind was clouded with memories of people, sharp instruments, a painful trip here and Emma caring for him. She must have undressed him. Was she the angel who wrapped her body around his to warm him?

He frowned and focused on her. She looked tired. Ragged, really. Her hair fell down her back in a waterfall of curls with only a few hairpins holding the sides back. Her day dress was a drab brown plaid, the collar stained with perspiration. She was pale and gaunt.

“How’d you get me back here? Where are we?” His questions made her tense. “You shouldn’t be here. I sent my father’s address…”

“Yes, and how was I to find it in all this mess?” Her eyes flared, her cheeks flushed with irritation. Her hands fisted on her hips as her anger grew.

He sighed. “Emma, you told me I was shot. Fell on the battlefield. I didn’t ride back here myself. And where are we, anyway?”

She looked away and dipped a rag in the pot of water. Squeezing the excess out, she wiped off the sweat from his face. “I got your message, the other message you sent. You know, the soap? I figured you gave me the address, expecting I’d use it and leave but also, with that soap, hoped I wouldn’t.” She refused to meet his eyes. “Then, we heard the sounds of the battle. I had to find you.”

He felt her hand quiver as she wiped his neck. It hurt to raise his left hand, but, by God, he had to touch her. His fingers encircled her wrist as he pushed himself off the cot with his right hand. For a moment, he felt lightheaded but struggled to stay upright.

“You were insane to go there. You might have been killed, taken prisoner, any number of things,” he responded in a hard voice. “What about Nathan then? Hum?”

She pulled her hand away. “I got a weapon.”

He gazed beyond her to the table with the revolver. His brows inched higher. “A LeMat? Where did you get that?” It was an expensive piece. A Confederate-made weapon out of New Orleans. One neither he nor John Henry owned.

“What does it matter how I got it?” She turned away.

He looked down. When he stood, the blanket fell off him, and he was naked as the day he was born.
Damn
.

A thud sounded on the mattress. His clothes—uniform navy pants, suspenders and a plaid shirt. No drawers. His nose wrinkled at the thought of the woolen pants against his naked flesh. It was a small price to pay, he figured, reaching for the pile.

“When I learned you were going to be taken to those butchers,” she said, “I convinced the medical steward to remove the bullet himself and let us go.” She pulled the sheet off the mattress. “He even found your horse for me. Found Petey, too, in the woods where I’d left him.”

“Emma…”

“No one’d take him. He’s too old, not quick enough for your line of work.” She reached over and pulled up his right suspender. Nodding toward the left side, she said, “Best be leavin’ that one down for a while.”

He snorted as he sank into a chair. “Yes.”

“Daddy and Tilly found this shack deserted. Needed to get you out of the weather anyway.”

“How long?”

“Almost a month.”

Without a sound, he repeated the words to himself. With a groan, he rested his left arm on the table. The pain had dulled during the time he’d spent in bed, but he wasn’t ready to use the arm much.

“We gotta go,” he mumbled, rising to his feet.

“Here,” she said, throwing the pillow at his left side. He reached to catch it, but pain shot through to his shoulder. “Uh. Not yet, we ain’t leavin’ till you can use that arm better. Heavens, you’d never be able to hold Goliath now.”

As she bustled about the room, adding additional logs to the fireplace, he stared out the window. The woman had risked too much for him, and he didn’t deserve it.

#

Another week passed. It was the middle of February now, and they still waited for Jack’s arm to recover. Each new day, he felt the muscles mending and the pain lessen. At first, he moved it gently. Now, he was lifting things, starting with his shirt, a lightweight item, increasing the weight as time continued, and he convinced himself he was stronger, despite the stabbing pain. But he needed the arm to be as good as it had been, so he could ride, hold a rifle…embrace Emma and make love to her. His body needed time to heal, but his patience wore thin.

“Come here,” he called after his son as the toddler crawled away, giggling.

“Don’t encourage him,” Emma scolded him. “He’ll be harder for me to watch if you keep that up.”

“He’s a boy,” he replied smugly. “Boy’s gotta grow strong and be curious so he can fill his role in Society.” At her grunt, he smiled. The significance of his words struck him. “Role in Society” sounded like something his father would say. The door to his past threatened to open, and he mentally slammed it shut. He abruptly stood and headed for the door–stepping away from the familial setting and the responsibilities it implied.

Outside, warmer temperatures had melted the previous week’s snow, turning it to mud. But the brisk breeze made it clear that winter was far from over. He inhaled and knew conditions would deteriorate.

Tilly must have realized it as well. She and John Henry carried more wood to the shack.

“Massa Jack,” she said as they came closer, “You be lookin’ like yous be ready to ride.”

He chuckled. “Soon, Tilly, soon.”

She smiled shyly at him, but Emma’s father scowled. John Henry seemed more himself. His memory lapses hadn’t gotten any worse, and he wasn’t as quiet as he had been. But one thing had changed—he detested Jack. Waking up to find the old man pointing a gun at him wasn’t exactly new to Jack. He’d done the same when he found Jack in bed with Caroline. Now, though, Jack figured John Henry saw him as a traitor to the South. Or perhaps, the cause of Caroline’s death. It didn’t matter. Emma and Tilly kept John Henry occupied with chores and Nathan, leaving him little time to spend around Jack.

One thing they did was keep the guns away from Emma’s father. Given his obvious dislike of Jack, he couldn’t be trusted, not to mention they had no ammunition to spare. All Jack had were ten rounds for his and Emma’s rifles. The Le Mat was fully loaded except for one cartridge. He didn’t want to know how the first cartridge had been used.

Jack picked up a grimy rock with his left hand and threw it. The motion unleashed a fury of pain in his shoulder although the rock fell only eight feet away. Rubbing his wounded flesh, Jack worried. They needed to go and soon, before the ground thawed and fighting resumed.

#

Emma was near her wit’s end after spending more than a month in the little shack, with Jack and yet, without him. She wanted to scream.

The long ride back to the camp after Jack’s injury had nearly finished both of them. At first, she rode behind him and tried to keep him from falling, but he was too tall and weighed too much for her. Eventually, she strapped him into the saddle and walked on the right side so she could drop back and support him if he slid. Frustrated and exhausted as she was by the effort, his moaning and groaning tore at her soul.

Fear of exposing Jack to the elements had also heightened Emma’s anxiety, and she was greatly relieved when they reached camp and her father, in a lucid moment, told her about the abandoned shack. It took a full day to clean out the shack, but it proved to be a lifesaver when winter hit hard in the Tennessee Valley.

Emma stayed with Jack night and day, cleaning his wound with melted snow, which took the place of rainwater, or “sweet” water as the surgeons called it. The wound oozed pus and though Judd had told her pus was good and showed the wound was mending, Tilly adamantly claimed it didn’t. They also used a combination of boiling water and the rest of the whiskey Judd had reluctantly given to Emma to clean the wound, but Jack put up a fierce fight because of the pain. Yet she had to take care of her man as well as she could, however much he fought her.

Of course, Jack wasn’t hers. If he belonged to anyone, it was the Union Army. And she had stolen him from them. If caught, he could pay with his life, for he’d surely be tried as a deserter. Jack had deserted his post to get her and Nathan out of Virginia, and then she took him to save his life from those butchers they called surgeons. She saw what they had done to Billy and refused to lose Jack too.

Although she’d kept Jack’s wound clean, he developed a fever. Emma wiped his face, trying to cool him. He shivered so badly that she’d covered him with most of the few blankets they had, but then he acted as though he was drowning. The only thing left to comfort him was her body. It had worked. He had relaxed when she slid into the bed with him, trying to cover Jack without touching his inflamed torso and arm. But she had hardly slept.

Emma’s father was livid because of what she’d done. After Jack’s fever broke and she found her father pointing the gun at him again, she realized she’d gone too far.

Now, she avoided Jack but continued to worry about his wound. Her heart twisted when he didn’t seem to want her, but she realized he was in too much pain for physical desire. And when her menses came, it reminded her again that she was still barren.

Emma loved Jack. She wanted him. She had assumed the role of mother to his son. The ties between her and Jack were there. To survive, they had pretended more than once to be married. Much as she loved Nathan and knew he needed her, she desperately wanted Jack to give her a child of her own.

“Ouch,” Emma cried when the needle jammed into her finger as her vision blurred. She sucked on the tiny wound, fighting to stop the tears from falling.

“Miss Emma, the light be fadin’,” Tilly softly said. “Cain’t see to be fixin’ that piece, donna think?”

Emma bit her bottom lip and nodded. She could finish repairing the tear in Jack’s shirt the next day and put it down. Tilly wasn’t a bad girl, not at all, despite how much Caroline had complained about her. The slave’s help with Nathan and her father had been invaluable.

She looked at Tilly as she hummed, swaying her hips, rocking Nathan who suckled at her breast. Envy pricked at Emma, but she ignored it.

Tilly burped Nathan and put him in the open chest drawer that served as his bed.

“Good nigh’, missy.” Tilly climbed into the bed with Emma’s father, whose snoring she briefly interrupted.

Emma nodded and turned. The only other bed was Jack’s. She could barely make herself go there. Every night, she waited for Jack to fall asleep before climbing in and turning away from him, even though she didn’t want to.