Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(5)

Neither the abrupt change in topic nor the forced brightness in MaryNell’s tone could mask the hint of unshed tears—and fear—in her eyes. But they did all but answer the question in Aletta’s mind. And she felt sick inside.

She knew that fear, knew how swiftly life could change. So many widows, so many fatherless children. Life was so precarious. She’d asked Warren before he’d left if he was certain he could take another man’s life. “Aletta, I think every man is capable of killing another man . . . given the right circumstances.” Did that same thinking apply to a woman too? Could a woman commit acts she’d usually never dream of?

“Yes, I’m making that pie,” she said softly. “It’s his favorite.” Then a thought occurred. “Why don’t you and Seth come over for a slice this evening? And we’ll celebrate together.”

The knowing look in MaryNell’s expression said she was wise to the motivation behind the invitation. “Thank you, Aletta. But . . . not tonight.” She walked to the door.

Aletta followed, then paused beside her, realizing she hadn’t told her the news yet. The words didn’t come easily. “I . . . lost my job at the factory today. Several of us did, in fact.”

“Oh, Aletta. I’m so sorry. Truly.”

Aletta nodded. “Thank you.”

The silence stretched and MaryNell started to open the door, but Aletta covered her friend’s hand on the knob.

“If there’s anything you need, MaryNell, I’m here. I’ll do anything I can to help you. You’re not alone, please know that.”

MaryNell looked at her, the false brightness in her expression faltering only for a second. Then she looked away, taking a quick breath. “Seth will miss seeing Andrew every day. But we’ll be sure to get the boys together again soon.”

MaryNell opened the door and Aletta stepped outside, the bitter cold wind all but blowing straight through her.




CONFEDERATE CAMP

OUTSKIRTS OF NASHVILLE

“Hold still for me, Captain Winston.”

The steel scalpel cold against his temple, Jake obliged as the doctor cut the bandages from around his eyes. “I take it you’ve done this before, Doc.”

The army surgeon laughed beneath his breath. “Nope. You’re the first.”

Hearing the teasing in the older man’s voice, Jake smiled to mask the tightness in his chest, trying his best not to let his thoughts go where the deliberately imposed darkness of the past seven days had threatened to take them.

“I consulted with another surgeon, Captain, who agreed with my diagnosis. Allowing your eyes to rest for the past few days, especially with that salve on them, should have advanced the healing process. Once I remove the bandages, I want you to keep your eyes closed.”

With the cloths removed, the coolness of the air intensified around Jake’s eyes. Even with them still shut, he sensed the brightness inside the hospital tent, which wasn’t a surprise. He wasn’t blind, after all. The whack on his head he’d suffered after being shot had simply blurred his vision a little.

“I’m handing you a warm compress, Captain . . .”

Jake opened his hands.

“Press it gently to your eyes. It will help dissolve whatever salve remains.”

Jake complied, the warmth and moisture feeling good. He rubbed carefully, the ointment’s once-pungent scent, smelling a little like bitterroot and rosemary, all but gone.

“Now, still holding the cloth up to your eyes, I want you to open them a little at a time. Let your eyes adjust to the light.”

Jake squinted, then winced. Even the dimness of the tent seemed overbright. Finally, after a moment or so, he managed to open his eyes fully. He blinked as his immediate world came into view.

“How do things look, Captain Winston?”

Jake held his hand out in front of him. “So far, so good, Doc.”

The physician handed him a book. “Try reading for me.”

Jake opened the cover and flipped over a few pages—and felt that unwelcome tug on his thoughts returning again. He squinted. “I can read the words. But they’re a mite fuzzy.”

“That could be due to some lingering salve.”

Jake nodded, but he didn’t think so. He’d wiped the ointment clean.

“Try your rifle sight next.”

The doctor crossed to the entry of the tent and pulled back the flap. The cold followed quickly on the heels of a dull November sun as Jake pulled the sight from his pocket and peered through. His pulse edged up a notch. He closed his right eye, then opened it again, trying to focus. But couldn’t. He swallowed hard.

“Don’t be discouraged, Captain. Similar to the wound in your shoulder, your eyesight needs time to heal. At this point, we still have every reason to believe your full sight will return.”

Again Jake nodded. But the apprehension in the surgeon’s expression, and the way the man looked away when he spoke, told him a different story.

A story no sharpshooter ever wanted to hear.




“I’m here to see Mr. Tanner, please.” Aletta attempted to appear composed while Andrew tugged on her hand, doing his best to pull away. But she noticed other patrons in the bank beginning to stare.

The young woman behind the desk glanced down at an open ledger. “And do you have an appointment, Mrs. . . . ?”