Love, Come to Me(32)

She made her way over to her father, who was standing near the Emersons and watching the magnificent blaze. Mr. Emerson was clearly suffering from shock, his eyes traveling slowly over the crackling flames and seeming to take none of it in. Filled with pity, Lucy averted her eyes, unable to look on the face of such open grief. Several yards away she saw Daniel’s wiry figure as he and some others took inventory of what had been saved. Guiltily she realized that she hadn’t even given a thought to Daniel or worried about whether he was all right or not. Clenching her hands together, she made up her mind to go over to him as soon as the scene calmed down a little.

“My manuscript,” Emerson suddenly said, his voice so soft at first that it was difficult to hear. “My last manuscript. There is no copy of it aside from the one in the house. My manuscript!”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Emerson,” someone said soothingly. “I’m sure someone’s got it—”

“Who? Where is it?” Emerson latched onto the idea with new energy, his voice rising in agitation. “It was kept in a white box in the library. Where is it?”

There was a brief scuffle around the yard as they all tried to find the manuscript, but it didn’t turn up. “My manuscript,” Emerson said, his voice shaking. His face was papery white as he stumbled away from the people who tried to surround him and offer their comfort. He nearly tripped over Heath, who was seated on the ground with his forearms propped on his knees in a weary posture. Heath, his blue eyes narrowing, lifted his head and looked up at the other man. There was a world of difference between them, one man elderly and frail, filled with the knowledge of a lifetime of experience, the other strong and so very young, with a whole life stretching out before him. One from the North, one from the South. But there were similarities between them. If nothing else, they both shared an uncommon respect for the written word, and Heath understood exactly what the loss of the manuscript meant to the old man. As they stared at each other silently, Heath got to his feet, and then he muttered an explicit oath, taking off for the house.

Paralyzed, Lucy watched as he snatched up a soaked quilt from the ground and loped up the front steps. No one made a move to stop him. “No,” she said, too quietly for him to hear, and as he got nearer to the inferno, she cried out in panic. “Don’t!”

If Heath heard her, he ignored her, and he disappeared into the blazing house. As she tried to take a step forward, her father held her back, whispering that everyone was looking at them. Her breath came harshly through her throat; her heart pounded until it hurt. Her eyes were fastened on the doorway as she stood like a statue, her muscles as rigid as iron. From somewhere in the house there came a thundering crash, the sound of another section of the roof falling in. Her father put a hand on her arm and she flinched away, staring at the doorway as if that alone would make Heath appear. It seemed that hours passed by, and still there was no sign of him.

“Lucy, what’s the matter?” She heard Daniel’s voice, and she turned to him. He looked tired as he sighed and stretched his shoulder muscles.

“The . . . I . . . Mr. Rayne is in there,” she said tightly. “Don’t you even care?”

“Care?” Daniel repeated, catching her by the elbows and staring down into her face. Confusion and then irritation shone in his dark brown eyes. “I suppose we all do . . . but no one quite as much as you. Why is that, Lucy?”

“He’s a human being! Why doesn’t anyone seem to care about what’s happening? Why doesn’t anyone understand ?”

Daniel’s voice was sharp and steady as he answered her. “You were just a child during the war—you are the one who doesn’t understand. His kind would just as soon shoot us as let us live. My God, do you know what the Rebs did to us during the war? Some of them were no better than Indians, scalping Union soldiers, skinning them! Do you know what they did to us in those stinking prisons? They treated us like animals, letting us die for want of food and medicine—oh no, I won’t forget, and I won’t forgive. And as for this particular Confederate—he may be handsome and as charming as the devil, but underneath he’s as dirty and rotten as the rest of his kind. He isn’t worth caring about.”

“But they weren’t the only ones. I heard about what Union soldiers did to the Southerners,” Lucy said, wiping at the tears that fell down her cheeks. “About burning their homes and land, about what they did to the women . . .”

Daniel went very still. “What are you saying?” he demanded, his face harsh and his eyes piercing.

“I don’t think either side was all good or bad—”

“You’re upset by all the excitement,” he interrupted coldly, “which is why I’m going to forget this conversation. Don’t try to think about things that are beyond your understanding, Lucy. If you had been in the war you would know what kind of people Southerners are, and you would know enough to hate them. And if I were you, I’d stop worrying about your stinking Rebel, because the only thing that’s going to get him out of that house now is a miracle.”

Lucy bit her lip as Daniel strode away. Why did everyone suddenly seem like strangers to her? Daniel, her father, the townspeople—it was like she had never known them before, like she was standing on the edge of a stage and watching them take part in something she didn’t understand. All she knew was that Heath was somewhere inside the burning house and that she cared about what happened to him, cared desperately. No matter what he was or what he might have done in the past, she didn’t want him to die. She pressed her hands against her temples to quiet her raging headache and stared at the fire until her eyes were blinded by the brightness.