In His Eyes(19)
She brushed off her apron. “Good, then.” She eyed him. “Well, let us see how well we can manage you on one leg.”
The task proved more strenuous than he cared to admit, and the amount of weight he was forced to lean upon the woman frustrated him further, but at long last they had scooted, hobbled, and hopped their way across the floor and eased him into the welcoming embrace of the well-used chair.
Mrs. Preston blew air up her face, stirring a lock of hair that had come free. “Good thing I’m no flimsy girl, else I never would have gotten the bulk of you more than a step or two.”
Westley cocked his head. “Pardon?”
A sad smile bowed her lips. “When I was young, I lamented that I was stockier than the other girls. Where they were fine-boned and small, I had no trouble besting my brothers at wrestling.”
Surprised by the thought of Mrs. Preston tumbling about in the dirt, Westley felt himself grin enough to use muscles that had not been stretched in some time. “Truly?”
“Most certainly.” She bobbed her head. “But my pa always said my build was a good thing. Said that a farm woman should be of hearty stock, not some wispy thing that couldn’t help pull a calf or hoe a garden.”
Westley had never given much thought to such things. His family owned two thousand acres of farmland on the banks of the Mississippi, but his mother had been a well-bred lady who never would have put her fingers in the dirt, let alone assist in the birthing of livestock.
“Still, I wished for a more feminine form.”
Westley thought that her late husband must have found her pleasing enough to wed, but thankfully arrested the thought err it could leave his mouth. The high society types were not the only ones to wed out of benefit rather than affection. Had that been the case for her, he would not add to her pain by making her voice such aloud.
“Oh, don’t look so pitying on me, boy!”
Once more alarmed his features were easily read, Westley frowned, which gained nothing more than a chuckle from Mrs. Preston.
“In time I learned God always knows what is best. My Henry was a bear of a man, all brawn and muscle.” She pointed a finger at him. “Bigger, even, than you.”
She pushed the stray lock of hair back under her cap and fetched a blanket to spread over Westley’s legs, though he wasn’t cold. “If I had been one of those willowy girls,” she continued, “I would not have been able to birth him seven hearty sons.” A twinkle made her eyes sparkle as she stepped back from him. “Nor carry heavy furniture for an arrestingly handsome man who has taken up residence in my home.”
Westley gaped, which only caused her to bark out a hearty laugh. “Come, now, I cannot be the first to make mention of your looks. The girls must ache to touch that dark hair of yours or run a hand over such a stony jaw.”
As his discomfort grew, Mrs. Preston seemed to enjoy herself even more. “One such as you must have a lady pining for you at home, no?”
Her question sucked away all the mirth that had risen within him. He turned his gaze to the ashes in the hearth. “No one waits for me, nor should they.”
His words were gruffer than he intended, and she fell silent for a moment. “Forgive me, I spoke without thought.”
Feeling like a rapscallion, he released the air from his lungs. “Nothing to forgive. You have shown me nothing but kindness.” Westley shoved aside the darkness that threatened to claw its way within and forced a smile. “You mentioned something to read…?”
She offered up an apologetic smile and left him alone once more. Westley ran a hand over his face. He would not allow himself to succumb to pity—be it from himself or another. He must formulate a tactic to bend his body to his will and regain his place in the world. He needed to be ready to ride again soon.
If I ever ride again.
Westley set his jaw against the loathsome thought. He would heal. He must heal. Resigned that he must ask no more of his body than it could bear, he determined to work toward his strength but not undo his healing in the process. With Mrs. Preston’s good care, he would be on his feet soon enough.
But what then? With the war all but over and him injured, would the army release him? If it did, where would he go? He’d spoken true words to Mrs. Preston—No one waited for him back home in lands that knew him as a traitor. It would do him no good to return there. He should simply leave it and start life anew. In the west, perhaps? The army could surely spare him there.
Westley nearly groaned. He should not abdicate his family lands. Father would have been disappointed that even now Westley was a traitor who sought to shirk his responsibilities to his family and his plantation.
But his parents were dead. He could no longer disappoint them. He alone would have to live with the decision to abandon the estate.
Perhaps he could petition the army to send him to join Federal forces near Belmont. They would surely take up residence in the South for a time to ensure the Southerners did not attempt further rebellion. It might afford him the option to hold his property and serve simultaneously. But would he want to? He didn’t know if he could face friends and neighbors who had fought on the other side of the war and every day bear their hatred of him—he who had been born a Southerner yet had served in the Federal Army. Even the men in his ranks had shown distrust of him—for no other reason than the accent that marked him as Southern. For that, Westley set himself to removing the traces of it from his speech. Within the first year of the war, no one guessed he hailed from south of the line, and by the second, those who had known it seemed to have forgotten.