In His Eyes(5)

His manners came back to him in a flood—a torrent bursting through a dam of forgetfulness—and he suddenly loathed his indecency. What kind of gentleman sat about in nightclothes with his extremities exposed? His mother would have been aghast. Westley shifted his weight despite the pain and put his legs back under the bedclothes, cutting his eyes to the woman, who didn’t even possess the wherewithal to avert her steady gaze.

The woman chuckled. “Boy, there’s no need for modesty around me. I’ve cared for seven boys of my own, not to mention all those who came through my house.” She turned serious. “That battle was a bad one, that’s for sure. But it finally brought this terror to an end.”

She drew a breath and plastered on a smile as she scooped up the bowl. “Here. I brought you some broth.” She tugged a straight-backed chair with a cloth-woven seat over to the bed and settled herself on it.

Westley could only focus on her previous words. “The war…” His raspy voice sounded strange to his ears, and he tried to clear his throat.

“Hush. Take a few sips of this to ease your throat. Then you can talk.”

Westley gave a brief nod and let the woman feed him like an infant. He suspected that if he dared to try the task himself, this stern nurse would only put up a fight. It was not a battle he cared to engage in at the moment. Besides, the liquid tasted too good for him to argue. He hadn’t had chicken broth this good since Sibby had fed him as a child. The thought of home sent a pang through his chest, and he pushed the sentiment away.

“Besides,” the woman continued as she spooned liquid between his unkempt whiskers, “I’m sure I already know the things you are likely going to ask.”

He grunted his reply.

The woman smirked as she lifted the spoon to his mouth again. “The battle went well, and the Federal Army gained the victory.”

Westley smiled. Good news, indeed.

“We don’t know what happened to you, but we guess that you took some kind of tumble because you snapped your leg just above the knee.”

Murky memories of his horse rearing clouded his mind. There had been blood. So much blood. Then the horse fell over on him….

His countenance must have darkened, because the woman shifted the subject. “I’m Mrs. Preston, by the way. We’ve been a mite curious over who you are.”

Westley swallowed three more spoons of the warm broth before attempting a reply. “You mean you don’t know?” As promised, the warm liquid did wonders for his throat. His voice was still raspy, but functioning.

She handed him the bowl and spoon, and along with them a measure of his dignity. “We saw a scrap of paper pinned inside your jacket, but the words were smeared. Federal Major, by what was left of your uniform was the best we could tell.”

Westley took the bowl from her and lifted the spoon for another sip. “Major Westley Remington, ma’am, of the Third West Virginia Calvary Regiment, Third brigade, Army of the Shenandoah.”

“Good then.” She patted his hand as though he were a child who had correctly recited his lesson. “Well, Major Remington, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, ma’am.” Though Westley had to wonder if the term acquaintance applied to someone who had likely already known him in intimate ways brought about by caring for one out of his wits.

She folded her hands in her lap. “Do you have any idea how long you have been here?”

Apprehension buzzed within him. “No, ma’am.”

“It’s May the second, Major.”

Westley paused with the spoon almost to his mouth. That would make… He frowned. When was that battle? His frown deepened. Why couldn’t he remember?

“You came here with the other wounded after the battle at Sayler’s Creek…”

Ah, yes. He vaguely remembered a doctor. Bristly fellow. He’d said the same.

“That was on the sixth of April.”

Westley swallowed, allowing himself a moment. “I’ve been here for a month?”

“Yes, sir. In and out of consciousness so much that I had a hard time keeping enough food and water in you to keep you alive. Didn’t think you’d make it. They even started hedging bets. Never seen a man so eat up with the fever hang on the way you did. As the weeks passed, we started to think you would sleep for all eternity.”

“Where are my men?” Westley resumed eating again, scraping his spoon against the side of the chipped porcelain so as not to miss a drop.

The woman shrugged. “They mustered out, I suppose, now that the war’s over.”

Westley nearly choked. “Over, you say?”

“You missed much.” She turned to look out the window, but Westley kept his focus on the sadness that filled her eyes.

His chest constricted. Such a reaction could mean only one thing. “We…lost?”

She snapped her honey-brown eyes back to him. “Oh, no. The United States obtained victory and succeeded in restoring our country. Three days after you fell, Lee surrendered at the McLean family house out in Appomattox.” She cocked her head, her cap sitting precariously on the mound of gray curls. “Don’t you remember the doctor telling you?”

Westley shook his head.

“Ah, well. You were a bit feverish.” She offered him a smile. “Well, Lee surrendered, but then Lincoln was shot—”