A Snow Country Christmas (The Carsons of Mustang Creek #4)(49)

In his mind’s eye, he could see the hired man’s broad black face, shining with sweat, his white teeth flashing as he grinned and replied, “Well, I don’t see as how the Good Lord ought to get all the credit. He might send the sunshine and the rain, but far as I can reckon, He ain’t much for plowin’, nor for hoein’, neither.”

Jacob invariably laughed, no matter how threadbare the joke, would have laughed now, too, if he’d had the strength.

He barely noticed, as he lost consciousness for what he believed to be the final time, that the terrible din of battle had faded to the feeble moans and low cries of other men, fallen and left behind in the acrid urgency of combat.

He dreamed—or at least, he thought he was dreaming—of the Heaven he’d heard about all his life, for he came from a long line of church-going folk. He saw the towering gates, studded with pearls and precious gems, standing open before him.

He caught a glimpse of the fabled streets of gold, too, and though he saw no angels and no long-departed loved ones waiting to welcome him into whatever celestial realm they now occupied, he heard music, almost too beautiful to be endured. He looked up, saw a dazzling sky, not merely blue, but somehow woven, a shimmering tapestry of innumerable colors, each one brilliant, some familiar and some beyond his powers of description.

He hesitated, not from fear, for surely there could be no danger here, but because he knew that once he passed through this particular gateway, there would be no turning back.

Perhaps it was blasphemy, but Jacob’s heart swelled with a poignant longing for a lesser heaven, another, humbler paradise, where the gates and fences were made of hand-hewn wood or plain stones gathered in fields, and the roads were winding trails of dust and dirt, rutted by wagon wheels, deep, glittering snows and heavy rain.

Had it been in his power, and he knew it wasn’t, he would have traded eternity in this place of ineffable peace and beauty for a single, blessedly ordinary day at home, waking up beside Caroline in their feather bed, teasing her until she blushed, or to watch, stricken by the love of her, as she made breakfast in the kitchen-house on an ordinary morning.

Suddenly, the sweet visions were gone.

Jacob heard sounds, muffled but distinct. Men, horses, a few wagons.

Then nothing.

Perhaps he was imagining things. Suffering hallucinations.

He waited, listening, his eyes unblinking, dry and rigid in their sockets, stinging with sweat and grit and congealed blood.

Fear burned in his veins as those first minutes after he was wounded came back. He recalled the shock of his flesh tearing with visceral intensity, as though it were happening all over again, a waking nightmare of friend and foe alike streaming past, shouting, shooting, bleeding, stepping over him and upon him. He recalled the hooves of horses, churning up patches of the ground within inches of where he lay.

Jacob forced himself to concentrate. Although he couldn’t see the sky, he knew by the light that the day was waning.

Was he alone?

The noises came again, but they were more distant now. Perhaps the party of men and horses had passed him by.

The prospect was a bleak one, filling Jacob with quiet despair. Even a band of rebs would have been preferable to lying helplessly in his own gore, wondering when the rats and crows would come to feast upon him.

An enemy bullet or the swift mercy of a bayonet would be infinitely better.

Hope stirred briefly when a Federal soldier appeared in his line of vision, as though emerging from a void. At first, Jacob wasn’t sure the other man was real.

He tried to speak, or make the slightest move, thus indicating that he was alive and in need of help, but he could do neither.

The soldier approached, crouched beside him, and one glimpse of his filthy, beard-stubbled face, hard with cruelty, put an end to Jacob’s illusions. The man rolled him roughly onto his back, with no effort to search for a pulse or any other sign of life. Instead, he began rifling through Jacob’s pockets, muttering under his breath, helping himself to his watch and what little money he carried, since most of his pay went to Caroline.

Jacob felt outrage, but he was still helpless. All he could do was watch as the other man reached hurriedly for his rucksack, fumbled to lift the canvas flap and reach inside.

Finally, the bummer, as thieves and stragglers and deserters were called, gave in to frustration and dumped Jacob’s belongings onto the ground, pawing through them.

Look at me, Jacob thought. I am alive. I wear the same uniform as you do.

The scavenger did not respond, of course. Did not allow his gaze to rest upon Jacob’s face, where he might have seen awareness.

The voices, the trampling hooves, the springless wagons drew closer.

The man cursed, frantic now. He found Jacob’s battered Bible and flung it aside, in disgusted haste, its thin pages fluttering as it fell, like a bird with a broken wing. The standard-issue tin cup, plate and utensils soon followed, but the thieving bastard stilled when he found the packet of letters, all from Caroline. Perhaps believing he might find something of value in one or more of them, he shoved them into his own rucksack.

Jacob grieved for those letters, but there was nothing he could do.

Except listen.

Yes, he decided. Someone was coming, a small company of riders.

The thief grew more agitated, looked back over one shoulder, and then turned back to his plundering, feverish now, but too greedy to flee.

At last, he settled upon the one object Jacob cherished as much as Caroline’s letters, a small leather case with a tarnished brass hinges and a delicate clasp.