The Heart of Home Read online

  Mosquitoes buzzed around his face, drawn to the trickle of blood ever oozing from his hairline. He no longer bothered swatting them. They feasted upon him, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The news in Greenville had shattered his last remaining hope. What did more insect bites matter? His fingers itched to touch the five black bands tied around his arm, a steady reminder of his loss.

  He scanned the trees lining one side of the road, and then shielded his eyes against the glimmer of the river on the other. The Mississippi churned, tinted brown with the sediment that would enrich the fields when the banks overflowed. He’d passed plenty of fields thus far, some charred black, others actually being tended. Either way, it didn’t really matter. The river cared nothing for the woes of men. In some ways, the river was like life. It gave and took of its own volition, with no sense of justice. A mindless, violent force which could bless and curse in equal measure. It would continue its cycle, regardless of whether it lent aid to struggling farmers or destroyed them.

  Tristan passed by one particularly green field, flanked by a large, red brick house. Scores of people moved about their work almost joyously, singing hymns as they swung hoes among the tender plants. Tristan didn’t look long upon them.

  He had no desire ever to farm again, let alone utter a hymn.

  At least these people had found some joy in this battered place, ripe with their new freedoms. He wouldn’t begrudge them their pointless singing. He placed one foot in front of the other, the heat bringing sweat down his forehead to mingle with the blood. Both dripped into his eyes. He blinked it away as he turned off the road and meandered up the bank of the river, not entirely sure where he thought to go. A man could find freedom in aimless wandering, even if that freedom only meant he no longer had to heed marching orders and could stop to watch the river if he chose.

  The water glistened below, a tumult of muddy chaos. His eyes danced across the surface, watching as a stray leaf was caught up in the current and swirled away, only to be drawn into the depths as its reward for the ride.

  Such had been his own tale. Swept into tides of war, only to find himself crushed beneath the choking waters of loss. He moved closer, allowing his feet to sink into the cool mud. The water lapped at his boots, urging him to come farther into comfort. He could be like the leaf, washed away into the blissful abyss that carried none of the raw angst chafing his soul.

  He took another step into the river, the water now pulling at his knees. It would be easy to float away here. To let the river take him where it would. Another step and it tugged at his waist, a cold and wet embrace. Tristan ran his fingers through the water, letting it caress the dirt from his palms.

  The sun sank lower, turning the sky a fiery orange that glimmered on the surface of the water. Another step and it took hold of his chest, nudging him farther. Another step, and it lifted his feet from underneath him. Tristan leaned back and let it sweep him into its arms, carrying him past the banks. He lay on his back, looking up at the changing sky. This felt far better than walking. How many miles had he walked in his four years with the army? Countless.

  His body twisted and turned, spinning the sky around. Somewhere in the far reaches of his mind a forgotten worry niggled him, but he couldn’t bring himself to pluck it free and examine it. What did it matter anyway? The river’s embrace squeezed him tighter, pushing the air from his lungs. He drew another breath and spread his arms, trying to gain some balance as the current increased.

  The water heaved, spinning him onto his stomach and sucking him beneath the surface. A long forgotten panic surged, and Tristan kicked his feet, fighting for the surface. Cold water wrapped around him, seeking to find its way into his nose and mouth. He kicked harder, frantically searching for the surface.

  His fingers splayed, and in a moment of clarity, he realized he did not want to be the leaf swallowed by the abyss. Using a burst of energy he didn’t think he possessed, Tristan reached for the surface and thrust his arms down at his sides, kicking with all of his might.

  He broke free of the tendrils pulling at him and sucked a breath of air before the water pulled him under again. Struggling to break free, he battled the river around a hard bend, desperately trying to keep surfaced while fighting for land.

  Finally, his fingers sank into thick mud and he clawed at it, heaving himself onto the bank. He flipped over onto his back, gulping in a lungful of humid air. The wind tickled across his brow. He stared up at the sky, loathing himself for being too cowardly to let the river take him to be reunited with his family.

  Tristan slipped a finger under his jacket and touched the lowest band on his arm, the one meant for Millie. Then he closed his eyes and curled onto his side.

  Tristan awoke with a start. A grunt had him scrambling for his rifle, forgetting it had been stolen from him somewhere outside of Tupelo. He rolled to his knees, his eyes darting around in the gathering gray of evening. The noise came again, a groaning that didn’t seem human.

  He scanned the bank, his eyes landing on a clump of fur under a scraggly bush. He sat back on his haunches. The fur wiggled first, and then the rest of a dog scampered out from under the scrub brush, its coat a matted mess of mud. Tristan watched it as it slunk toward him. He didn’t move, transfixed as the creature made its way to him and then rolled over, exposing a dirty belly.

  Tristan shifted his eyes from the thrashing tail and up to a brown eye that seemed both welcoming and soulful. The dog turned on its side and scooted itself closer, bumping up against Tristan’s boot before flipping over once again. He slowly reached out a hand, and the dog greeted him with a warm tongue. Despite himself, an unfamiliar smile pulled at the side of his mouth and he reached down to scratch behind the filthy fellow’s ear. The dog nudged his hand, and in a moment, Tristan was sitting on the muddy bank rubbing the exuberant dog’s belly.

  Then without warning the dog flipped to his feet and pointed his nose down the bank, floppy ears held erect. Tristan followed the dog’s gaze up to a large white house, its stately columns standing sentry against the coming night like a row of soldiers. They wrapped all the way around the house, and the sight of them made his stomach drop to his feet.

  Willowby.

  He blinked, but the vision didn’t retreat. He looked down at the dog, and understanding dawned. At long last he would be granted a mercy. Light flickered in the window, beckoning him. Slowly, Tristan gained his feet and stumbled forward, trying to clear the fog from his mind. The pain in his head flared, and he didn’t need to reach up to touch it to know the blood flowed once more.

  The dog looked up at him and whimpered, and then scampered forward, looking over its shoulder. Tristan gave a nod. He would come. Perhaps his body had been taken down by the river after all. The dog merely guided him home, to the place where he would see them all once more.

  He tried to swallow, his throat dry despite all the water he’d swallowed. He placed one foot in front of the other, feeling far too wearisome to be free of the confines of flesh. But then, what would he know of such things? Perhaps this was just the way of it. The house grew larger upon his approach, beckoning him to the quiet rest that would rid him of this troubled world.

  He took the steps gingerly, reverently putting his hand on the column. The windows didn’t look like he remembered them, and the river snaking through the rear yard wasn’t true, but he wouldn’t begrudge the changes in the vision. At least he had been granted a glimpse of home before his soul gave up its confinement. It was a far sight better than the churning waters of the Mississippi.

  He sank onto the porch, and the dog settled by his side, snout resting on its paws. Tristan laid back, the faint sound of the door opening bringing peace. They would take him now, and he would drift away to where the streets were golden and pain did not rule. He’d lost sight of God during the swarms of battle, but as peace settled on his spirit, he knew God had not forgotten him.

  Closing his eyes, Tristan waited for the bright light. Forgive me for forgetting you, a
nd remember me instead as the boy who once trusted you with his heart.

  “Who are you?”

  The voice was smooth and soft, yet held more bite than an angel’s should have.

  “Naught but a weary soldier ready to go home.”

  A rustling of fabric and then the voice came closer. “Best you get on about that, then.”

  Exhaustion pulled at him, tugging him toward the comforts of oblivion. He nodded, the pulse in his head beating a steady rhythm with his somnolent heart. He was trying to get on with it. Couldn’t the angel see that?

  The sweet scent of honey tickled his nose and he sighed. Heaven would be a blessed reprieve from the fetid assault scores of wounded and unwashed men had waged on his senses.

  The disgruntled voice softened and neared. “Um, are you all right, sir?”

  He fought back a surge of irritation. Of course he wasn’t all right. Was a dying man supposed to be? “Will be, soon as this is done.”

  “As soon as what’s done?”

  Tristan cracked an eye to examine the angel standing over him. Hair the color of warm coffee piled on top of her head, she stared at him with wide brown eyes from an oval face. He smiled. Just as beautiful as a heavenly creature should be. She leaned near and placed a cool hand on his brow, making a tsking sound as her fingers slid into what must be the matted mess of blood tangled in his hairline.

  Pain spiked and he snagged her wrist, startled to find it all too solid in his grasp. His eyes flew wide. The woman should have struggled to get away, but she remained still, looking down at him with guarded eyes.

  “Sir, you need tending.”

  Tristan swallowed, trying to get his foggy thoughts to focus. Was he dreaming? Or perhaps he was actually drowning in the river and his mind merely conjured a more pleasant place to pass. He released her hand. “Just let me be.”

  Scowling, she leaned closer. “You are on my porch.”

  Tristan groaned, the throbbing in his head trying to convince him this was not the quiet escape back to Willowby he’d yearned for.

  “Sir?” She shook his shoulder, sending another wave of pain through his head.

  He released a low groan and closed his eyes. “Just let me be, woman, I beg of you.”

  She scoffed. “I cannot. You are a drenched and delirious soldier still clothed in his grays and lying on my porch in a most pitiful state. I simply cannot let you be.”

  Anger stirred in his chest, pushing out some of the cold from his veins. The dog at his side moved closer, its warm body suddenly reminding him he was oddly cold.

  The woman tugged on his arm. “Come. I will take you in the house.”

  Tristan opened his eyes once more, the waning light casting her features in an amber glow. Even still, he could see a mixture of trepidation and worry scattered across her face.

  “No, thank you.”

  “No?” Those flashing eyes grew wider.

  He rolled to his side, and tried to find the numbing fog once more. Blackness crept in on his vision and he closed his eyes, longing to surrender to it. “Please, may I just die on your porch?”

  The woman made a startled noise, and then everything faded into the abyss.

  Chapter Three

  “Mama!” Opal flung open the rear door and called through the house, casting another look at the sodden soldier pooling water on the porch. Where had he come from? The very river itself?

  Mama scurried out of the dining room, black skirts swishing around her ankles. “What’s happened?”

  As Mama gained the threshold, Opal flung her arm out at the soldier.

  “Oh, my!” Mama glanced around. “Where did he come from?”

  “I have no idea. He asked if he could die on our porch.”

  Mama’s eyes rounded. “What now?”

  “Just as I said.” Opal knelt beside the man, a fellow with a red-brown beard and a mop of matching hair. The lines of his face were pleasing, and many would have considered him handsome, if not for the haunting eyes that stabbed at her whenever they were open. Like muddy pools of empty despair, they had tugged at her heart. What manner of pain must he be in to have eyes like that?

  “What are we going to do with him?”

  Opal gently parted the hair on his scalp, squinting in the failing light to see what had caused the seep of blood. “I think he’s had a head injury. He didn’t seem to quite understand where he was.”

  Mama rounded the man and nudged her toe at the dog stretched out at his side, but the creature merely groaned and scooted closer to the man. Mama scowled at it. “Wonder why the dog has plastered himself to this fellow?”

  Opal rocked back on her heels. “Perhaps it senses the man is in need.”

  Mama looked dubious. “Well, then, I suppose they can keep one another company.”

  “We can’t leave him on the porch.”

  “And what do you suppose we do with him? He’s obviously in no mind or condition to remove himself.”

  A strange tightness coiled in her chest. It wouldn’t be charitable of them to leave him out here in such a condition. Besides, he’d seemed confused, but not dangerous. “We shall take him inside.”

  Mama tilted her nose in the air. “I’ll not have some mad soldier loose in the house.” She gestured to him. “Besides, that is no little fellow. How do you propose to move him?”

  Opal had no answer to that. He likely weighed as much as she and Mama combined, solid as he looked. And with him in so deep a sleep, he would be like trying to move a dead horse. She nibbled her lip. “Perhaps we can get him into something dry, bring a blanket, and hope he wakes in the night. Then he can come inside.”

  The startled sound that came from Mama’s throat almost made Opal smile. She knew the words Mama would say before they passed her lips.

  “You mean to undress a strange man? What in all of creation has gotten into you?”

  “He needs help,” she said with a sigh, rising to look Mama in the eyes. “We cannot in good conscious just let him suffer and die when we are able to take care of him. We’ll not be like the men who passed by the beaten man on the road, will we? Here before us is a broken man in as much need as the man the Good Samaritan took under his care.”

  Mama’s eyes flickered. Opal pressed on. “Is it not written, whoever sees his brother in need, but has no compassion for him, how does the love of God remain in him?”

  Mama sighed. “Very well.” She pointed a long finger at Opal. “But you shall not be the one to remove his garments. I’ll not have my only daughter scandalized.”

  Such had been Mama’s argument against Opal volunteering to aid at any hospitals during the war. She’d said there would be plenty of older married women who could tend to the soldiers like sons. A pretty young daughter must stay safely at home.

  Imprisoned at home, it had often felt like. How she’d been thrilled when Ella had come to Greenville. But knowing Mama was correct, Opal dipped her chin. “Thank you, Mama. That is most generous of you. I shall fetch a blanket.”

  “Some of your father’s clothes, as well.” The words came so softly Opal almost missed them.

  She hesitated. “Are you certain?”

  “It’s only a loan, mind you, but it seems this fellow has need of them for tonight.” Mama kept her eyes trained on the soldier, and Opal could only wonder at what thoughts plagued her.

  She passed through the house, her mind a-flutter. The shadows clung to the upper hall, but she had no need of a lantern. Not only did the empty space offer no furniture to trip her, she could have walked these floors with her eyes closed and not falter. She slipped her hand over the cool knob of the door to Daddy’s chamber. Mama had allowed no one to open it since they’d learned of his death that fateful day in the fall of ’64.

  Taking a deep breath, Opal pushed open the door and stepped inside. Little remained, the writing desk, washbasin, and marble-top chifferobe having long since been carried off. Only the massive carved canopy bed, missing its feather mattress, and armoire still
graced the space. Opal pried open the armoire doors with a protesting squeak, feeling as though she trespassed. Inside, Daddy’s clothes had been neatly stacked and hung.

  Opal ran her finger over the material, a lump forming in her throat both for the loss of her father and the reverent care Mama had put into the only remaining thing left of her beloved husband. If Mama had not taken these clothes out to wash and press in anticipation of Daddy’s furlough, then they wouldn’t have been in a dirty heap in the washroom when the Yanks invaded. But Daddy had never made it home for his furlough. Mama had finished washing and pressing the items when the Yanks had gone, then gently placed them here and locked the room away.

  Pushing aside the memories, Opal plucked a linen shirt and a pair of trousers from the collection and closed the doors. The more intimate items the soldier would just have to do without, as she could not bring herself to pilfer them. She closed the door to Daddy’s room and stepped across the hall into her own, grabbing the newly finished quilt she’d spent the evenings working on. Fashioned from the usable portions of her old gowns, it was an array of feminine, if not somewhat worn, colors. She’d hoped it would be large enough to cover her bed for the winter, but she’d run out of fabric. Still, it would do.

  She plucked it from the hand-hewn chair one of the servants had left behind and scurried back down the stairs. She found Mama standing over the soldier, arms crossed.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Sorry, Mama.” Opal handed over the quilt and garments, then turned her back on the proceedings.

  Twice Mama’s sounds of strain tempted her to turn, but she knew better than to offer aid. Finally, long after full dark had settled on them, Mama pronounced him finished, her tone mournful.

  Opal turned to look at him, dressed in Daddy’s black trousers and a linen shirt. She leaned closer. “What have you tied on him?”