Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(19)

“Andrew, come quickly.” She gestured. “We need to start back to town.”

“But I don’t wanna leave, Mama! I like it here!”

She joined the boy and spoke in low tones, turning her back to the wagon.

Taking the hint, Jake picked up another crate, this one slightly smaller than the first but—as he swiftly found out—even heavier. He angled the crate and saw the word Sugar stamped on the side, and his frustration only deepened. No telling how much the contents of this crate alone cost. And like so many other soldiers, he hadn’t tasted sugar in two lifetimes.

“You take all my friends away!” the boy yelled.

Jake couldn’t help but look back. The mother knelt and drew her son to her as he cried, but the boy tried to push away. Finally, Andrew—Jake thought that was the name she’d used—relinquished his struggle and slipped his arms around her neck. Judging by the gentle shudder of her own shoulders, she was crying now too.

Jake carried the crate on to the kitchen, passing Jones along the way, the captain having missed the exchange by the front gate. Jake set his box down inside the door and returned to find the woman wiping her son’s face and whispering something soft and sweet sounding.

The boy nodded, then sniffed and wiped his nose on his coat sleeve, an act Jake figured usually earned him an admonishment. But not in that moment.

The woman finally rose and dabbed at her own cheeks, then held out her hand. The boy looked up, such love yet such consternation in his expression that Jake wished he could sketch the image right then, capture a snippet of the power a mother’s love held over a little boy’s heart. A love he knew only too well. One that had grown and matured through the years, to be certain. But a love he still missed every day of his life.

The boy slipped his hand into hers, and Jake felt something joggle his memory.

“Ma’am? May I have a word with you, please?”

She turned, wiping the corners of her eyes. Eyes that held a question, and that were the prettiest shade of blue he could ever remember seeing. She nodded.

“I overheard you say just now, ma’am, that you need to head back to town. I happen to know from an earlier conversation with Captain Jones there”—he motioned to Jones, who stood in the doorway speaking with the black woman—“that’s he’s heading back that way. I’m certain he’d welcome the chance to give you and your boy a ride, if you like.”

“You mean we could ride in a real army wagon?” The boy’s eyes went wide.

Jake smiled. “With real army horses.”

The boy looked up at his mother, who offered a smile she couldn’t quite hold.

“We’d be grateful, Mr. . . .”

“Captain Winston, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Captain Winston. I’m Mrs. Warren Prescott. And this is my son, Andrew.”

Jake gave the boy a salute and smiled when Andrew puffed out his chest and gave one right back.

“I’ll talk to the captain right now. Let him know.” Jake grabbed another crate and spoke with Jones at the house, then returned. “You’re all set, Mrs. Prescott.”

“Thank you, Captain.” But something in her expression had changed, something he couldn’t define. She walked closer, son in hand. “You’re the wounded soldier, the one Mrs. McGavock said was arriving today?”

Jake hesitated. “Yes, ma’am. That’s right.”

Her gaze went to the crates in the wagon bed, then back to him.

“Captain, I have a question to ask you. One that will sound strange, I realize. But if a person was to request your help in building a simple nativity—a booth and a manger—would you be able to lend assistance? To hold the pieces together and such?”

For an instant, he wondered if the woman was here by Colonel Stratton’s design, a spy, of sorts, to see if he was truly going to rest like the doctor ordered. Then he smiled, realizing she had to be asking for her son’s sake. Maybe the boy wanted to build a nativity for under the Christmas tree. “Yes, ma’am. I reckon I could do that.”

A smile the likes of which he hadn’t seen in far too long swept her face, and her eyes glistened. “Thank you, Captain.” She whispered something to her boy, then looked back. “Would you mind if Andrew waited here with you for a moment while I go back inside? I won’t be long.”

“Take your time, Mrs. Prescott. Your son looks pretty strong there. I’m betting he could help us carry some crates.”

The boy’s eyes lit as he ran over. Jake hefted another crate and Andrew followed along, pushing up on the bottom from beneath, his slender jaw firming with the effort.

True to her word, Mrs. Prescott returned minutes later just as he and Andrew returned from unloading the last crate. If Jake hadn’t known better, he might’ve thought she wanted to hug him.

“Thank you again, Captain Winston, for agreeing to help me. This means a great deal to me. And to Andrew as well.”

Jake nodded. She was a delicate-looking woman. And pretty, with dark hair and eyes so deep a blue that, close up, they looked almost violet. And she was most decidedly with child, now that he got a closer look. And married. Mrs. Warren Prescott, she’d made a point of saying. Lucky man, that Warren Prescott.

“You’re welcome, ma’am. I should be here for a few days, so just let me know when you need the help.”