In His Eyes(58)

After a time Greenville unfolded before him, every bit as gray as it had been when he’d first arrived. How long had that been? Days? It seemed months. In so short a time one scarlet-haired female had upended his life. A woman whom the Martins, and who knew how many others, still thought to be his wife.

Westley set his jaw as he passed ruined buildings and blackened bricks. Why hadn’t he corrected them? While he waited on the carriage and the women asked after Ella, it would have been the perfect time to lay out the truth. And still he’d hesitated.

Westley pulled the carriage to a stop and looped the reins over the wooden hitching post outside of the general store. Everything within him declared the dishonor of withholding the truth about the nature of their relationship, but he’d done it all the same.

Westley slapped the dust off his hat and tucked it under his arm. Not many folks moved around this time of the day. They were likely still taking the morning meal. Good. The fewer people he saw in Greenville, the better. Westley stepped inside, and the proprietor greeted him.

“Good mornin’, sir. What can I do for ya?”

Westley let some of his childhood accent slide back into his words, hopeful it would set the other man at ease. He didn’t want the man to clam up out of spite. “Mornin’, good sir. Do you know where I might find the doctor?”

The man scratched his thinning hair. “I’m sorry to say we haven’t had one come through here in some time, mister.”

Westley kept his features even. “A nurse, then perhaps? Anyone who might take a look at an ill infant?” He’d have someone look at Sibby, too, but he’d seen enough wrongly-turned ankles to know that all she needed was time off of it.

Compassion lit in the man’s eyes. “This your first babe to get sick?”

The question startled him. “I, um, yes. It is.”

The man waved to another customer that entered. “Then count yourself lucky, fellow. Most of us have lost too many of our children these last few years. The ones the fires and starvation didn’t take, the sicknesses did. Can’t tell you how many mothers buried little ones this last winter. Cemetery’s half full of ’em.”

Westley stared at him.

“Better that you ain’t had none till now. Now that there’s at least a little hope they might survive what ruined this country.”

The man wagged his head and Westley’s blood felt too thick to push through his veins. He dared not comment on the man’s declaration. There was nothing he could do for already-lost children. All he could do was try to save the one he’d held in his hands. “Is there no one who can help? He is only a few weeks old.”

The old man offered a sad smile. “What kind of sickness?”

Westley lifted his palms. “He’s been coughing a lot. Sounds a bit strangled.”

The older man glanced around and waved him closer. “Might be the whooping cough. Lots of the babes have been getting it.”

Westley leaned across the counter that separated them. “Do you know how to treat it?”

“I got something stored in the back. But not much of it, mind.”

Westley narrowed his eyes. Something about the way the man said it grated against him. His suspicions tingled. “Very well. I can use whatever amount you have.”

The man assessed Westley, then disappeared behind a door in the back. A moment later he returned with a small brown bottle and slid it across the counter.

Paregoric Elixir.

Westley turned the concoction over in his palm. “And this will cure it?”

The man rubbed the back of his neck. “Can’t say for sure that it will. But it does help with the coughing fits.”

The man gave Westley a price and he nearly dropped the bottle. “Are you mad, man?”

The proprietor dared to look offended. “Do you not know how rare these medicines are?” He lowered his voice as though the words he spoke were some grave secret. “Have you been living in a cave somewhere?” He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you, anyway?”

Westley set his jaw and fished currency from his pocket. “I can pay you in Federal funds. But only half.”

The man’s eyes lit with greed. No doubt the Federal funds, even though only half of the price he’d asked for, would be worth twice as much. Confederate bills were useless. Westley handed over the currency and the man snatched the money away as though Westley might change his mind.

“I have some amber oil, too. You rub it on the neck and chest. Not as good as the elixir, mind, but helps a lot, too.”

Westley pressed his lips in a line. Did this man seek to take advantage of him? Would the things even work? His mind jumped back to Ella and how desperately she clung to the child in the night.

He glared at the man. “A bag of oats, too.”

The proprietor grinned and snatched most of what remained of Westley’s funds.



The knock on the door sent Ella hurrying down the stairs. It must be the doctor! A good thing, too, since Lee had started coughing up thickened spittle this morning and had refused to eat again after that first attempt. She dashed off the stairs and scrambled across the foyer.

Ella pulled open the door and her heart lurched. Not the doctor at all! A man in Yankee Blue tipped his cap, his eyes taking in her widow’s blacks. Ella straightened.

Oh, she had forgotten all about him! Of all the days…. Ella forced a tight smile. “Good morning.”