The Heart of Home Page 3

  Mama stared down at the five black ribbons secured around his upper left arm. “I knew he would not want them removed, so I put them back.”

  A weight settled on her. Where a widow donned widow’s rags, a man might tie a strip of cloth in remembrance of those lost. Five. So many to lose. Her heart wrenched for his heartache, and she watched him for a moment, having nothing to offer but a silent prayer the Almighty might grant healing for his soul as well as his body. Opal knelt beside him, the silver slant of moonlight barely caressing his face. “I shall sit with him.”

  “Of course you will not!” Mama shook herself from her contemplations. “I’ll not have my daughter out alone with a man in the night.”

  Agitation swirled. “Mama.” She waited until she gained Mama’s gaze. “This is hardly a situation in which propriety is of utmost importance.” She gestured to the man. “He is no danger, and it’s no different from nurses sitting at the side of patients. I would like to know if he wakes in the night.” Her throat suddenly tightened but she cleared it away. “And if it happens he passes from this world to the next, I do not think he should be alone when he does.”

  Pain flickered across Mama’s face, the depth of it evident even in the scant light. Did she wonder again how Daddy’s final moments had passed, as Opal now did? Left out in the battlefield as he had been, had anyone been at his side? Opal pushed the thought away. It would do them no good to dwell on it. They could do nothing for Daddy, but this man could still benefit from their kindness.

  “Perhaps you are right.” Looking resigned, Mama crossed her arms. “We will stay with him through the night and pray he wakes.”

  She shifted from one foot to the other, not wishing to argue but concerned all the same. “And what of your condition?”

  Mama was silent for a time. “This leaves me in a very difficult situation, you know that don’t you?”

  “I do, Mama. But if it makes you feel more comfortable, I shall sit just inside the threshold and keep the rifle by my side. Should he appear dangerous in any way, I shall bolt the door.”

  Mama hesitated a moment longer, then finally relented. “Very well. I will leave my door open. If he as much as stirs, you are to call for me. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mama turned and disappeared into the house, leaving the rear door open for the bugs to find their way in. Her bout with the fever in ’63 made Mama all the more wary of the ever-present mosquitoes, and they had often endured the heat to avoid the insects. Threadbare sheets had replaced the mosquito netting over Mama’s bed, but the nuisances still found their way within.

  Once Mama started toward her bed, Opal hurried into the library and reached up into the hollow of the fireplace. Spreading her feet wide for balance, she thrust her arm up through the chimney opening until she felt the smooth wood of the rifle hanging against the brick. She tugged it off the hook and maneuvered the length of it out of the hiding place.

  It could do with a good cleaning, and she had no idea if it would even fire. But that didn’t matter. She had no intention of shooting the poor fellow. Scare him, maybe, if she really had to, but mostly she retrieved it to make Mama feel at ease.

  She set the rifle down at the threshold of the rear door and then stepped back onto the porch. A chorus of frogs and nighttime creatures began to swell in discordant harmony, the sounds of the night familiar and yet always a bit eerie. The dog whimpered, thumping his tail against the wood.

  “You have taken a liking to this one, I see.” Opal shook her head. What was she doing talking to a dog? Had she truly grown that lonely? The dog raised its head from its paws and lifted furry ears at her, as though it was just as surprised as she.

  Mama had draped the man in Opal’s quilt and tucked it under his chin. His socked feet stuck out of the bottom, battered boots sitting neatly by his side. Sweat slid down the nape of her neck. Likely this fellow would not welcome the added warmth of a quilt in the August night, now that he was dry. She pulled it off him, rolling it into a makeshift pillow.

  Kneeling at his side, she slipped her hand underneath his head and gently lifted. He groaned, turning his face toward her.

  “Is that you, Millie?”

  “Shhh. Don’t talk now.”

  His eyelids fluttered. “Saw…an angel.”

  She slid the quilt under his head, and he sank into it with a sigh. “Ummm. And she smelled like honey.”

  The man had grown delirious. Opal leaned closer, trying to squint at the wound on his head. Should she get a lamp and try to tend it now, or wait for Mama and the morning’s light?

  He thrashed, arms flying out. “No! Don’t!”

  Startled, Opal stumbled back, falling on her backside. The dog whimpered, and then stuck its snout under the man’s arm, nudging him. The fellow mumbled again and turned his head. She got on her knees, watching him.

  He flung his arms out again, then grew still. She waited for a time, and when it seemed he had settled, she moved closer once again. His breathing turned even. She waffled for a moment between attempting to rouse him and letting him sleep, and finally decided she should find a lantern and see what she could do with that wound.

  Leaving him to the insistent canine company, she stepped over the rifle and back into the house once more. Gathering the items she needed from the parlor, Opal struck a match as she walked, lighting the wick and turning it up enough to create a warm pool of light. Using her hand to shield the flame since the lantern had lost the glass chimney in a fit of her clumsiness, she stepped back out onto the porch and knelt beside their unexpected, ah, porchguest.

  He never stirred as she parted his hair. A long gash snaked through his scalp from hairline to crown. Deep, it oozed blood and had been caked with hair. She wrinkled her nose. He really could do with a good haircut, and though she didn’t know much by way of doctoring, even she could tell the wound needed to be sewn together. Dare she? Knowing she didn’t fair all that well with a needle even in cloth, flesh would be an entirely different matter.

  But Mama certainly wouldn’t have the stomach for it. She grabbed the lamp and made for the parlor again. Better she just do it now without Mama’s scrutinizing gaze. If she were lucky, he may even remain unconscious through the entire thing.

  Pulling open the drawer in the hutch, Opal fished out her sewing kit and a pair of scissors and secured them in her skirt pocket. Then she made her way to the kitchen and looped a pail of water and a rag over her arm. Supplies ready, she stepped lightly through the deep shadows of night, her pulse quickening.

  She found the man exactly as she’d left him, dog at his side and breathing evenly. He looked peaceful in sleep. A wide forehead graced by neat but manly eyebrows shielded a straight nose and sturdy cheekbones. The dog thumped its tail and gave a whimpering noise as though to say it had taken note of her over-long assessment.

  With a huff, she shook her foot at the dog. “Shoo.” The mongrel merely yipped at her and thumped its tail. “Oh, good heavens,” Opal mumbled. It seemed the furry creature could be just as stubborn.

  Ignoring it, she situated her tools, taking hold of the scissors first. Hopefully the fellow hadn’t formed an attachment to his damp locks. With quick movements, she gathered up sections of his hair and snipped it off close to his scalp. Even when she lifted his head and turned it from side to side, his deep breathing didn’t change.

  Satisfied he would not wake while she tended him, Opal carefully set to shoring his locks and freeing bits of hair from the gash. When his hair was neatly clipped, the beard looked rather out of hand, so she trimmed it back as well.

  There. A fine job. Hopefully he would think the same. She dipped the rag in the tepid well water and wrung it out. Keeping the lantern close, she gently washed the bits of dirt and hair from his gash until nothing but pink flesh remained. Now for the hard part.

  It took three tries to thread the needle with shaking hands, but she finally got it. She snipped the end of a length of thread free from the
spool and tied the ends. Closing her eyes, Opal drew a long, calming breath.

  Please steady my hands. She peeked at the man. And, please, Lord, let him not wake.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, Opal slipped the needle into the tender skin at the man’s hairline. He moaned a little, but didn’t move. Lips moving in silent prayer as she worked, she made tight stitches all the way down the length of the wound, binding the edges of flesh like the pieces of her quilt. If only she’d had a little whisky to pour on it. But hope and prayer would have to do.

  The dog watched her with careful eyes as she cleaned her hands and set the bucket aside. Then she gathered the sewing tools back into her pocket, retrieved the lantern, and settled down in the doorway to keep watch.

  Chapter Four

  Tristan gained awareness in spurts. First it started with the realization that he lay prone on something hard. Then he floated back to the surface of consciousness to note the warmth of sunshine across his face and the chirp of birds. Their song filled his ears, a reminder that he had survived whatever darkness had taken hold of him. He sifted through his memory, looking for something more than a sense that he had somehow escaped death, but found nothing solid.

  Someone hummed softly, further tugging him back to the world he wasn’t sure he wished to set weary eyes on once more. He waited as his senses slowly returned to him, listening. The humming shifted into a mournful song, its lyrics about God’s grace wrapped in a soulful melody. Thoughts clamored for attention, but for the moment he could only drift in the current of that voice.

  As he became more aware, a sensation in his scalp distracted him from the song. It both itched and burned, and his fingers twitched to scratch it. The singing stopped. Tristan stilled. Best he find out more about his surroundings before revealing his awareness.

  “Ah, good. You are awake.”

  Relief flooded the feminine voice in such a way he forgot to be annoyed and cracked his eyes open against the blistering sun. It took several blinks to focus on the face that hovered over him. He squinted, the woman seeming vaguely familiar.

  “We didn’t know if you would make it through the night, bad off as you were.” She leaned closer, peering at his head. “Think you can stand and come inside?”

  He stared at her for a moment, then slowly turned his head from side to side. He wouldn’t go about sullying this lady’s home.

  “Very well. We can wait a bit longer until you gain your strength.”

  He grunted. Couldn’t this woman see he was fine? He pulled himself into a sitting position, then immediately regretted it. Pain stabbed through his skull, and his stomach rolled.

  “Easy, there, sir. We can wait.” She placed a hand on his back to steady him. “I’ll fetch you some water, if you think you can stay awake.”

  Tristan placed his hands behind him to support his weight, feeling himself steady. The woman waited a moment and then scurried off in a rustle of feminine fabric. He wiggled his toes. Had he lost his boots in the river? They weren’t much to be had, but they were better than socks.

  He frowned. These were not his uniform grays. Alarm sprang up and he gripped his left arm. Fingers brushing over the ribbons, he counted them. Still five.

  A few moments later, the lady returned. “Mama changed you into some of my father’s dry things, but she was careful to retie your bands.”

  Tristan lowered his hand from where he still caressed them. He folded his legs, eyeing the woman as she handed him a cup. She studied him as openly as he studied her. She had thick hair piled on top of her head, hinting that it would likely fall past her hips if it were unbound. Gentle features soft with femininity housed warm cinnamon eyes that seemed to stare right through him.

  He looked away and sipped the clear water. He would never again take for granted the clean goodness of well water after all the times he’d guzzled straight from a stream.

  “I’m Miss Opal Martin, and this is my home, Riverbend.”

  Past the grass stirring in the gentle breeze, the mighty Mississippi bent an arm around the property, crooking it in an elbow like a mother with her child. “Adequately named,” he said, his voice raspy. He cleared his throat.

  “My father thought so.” There was a smile in her voice, but sorrow as well. Most likely she counted him among her lost, though she didn’t wear mourning blacks. “Even though many people told him he built it too close to the river.”

  Tristan set the cup aside, glad for the soothing refreshment. “Likely did.” He reached up to scratch at the cut on his head, only to find his hair no longer laid in clumps along his forehead. Probing, he found the source of the itching. He looked back at the woman. What had she said her name was?

  She knelt beside him, yellow skirts pooling around her knees. “I needed to trim it so I could stitch the wound.” Her voice held both apology and challenge, and he nearly chuckled.

  The sensation surprised him, and he forced it down with a scowl. “You changed my clothes, cut my hair, and stitched my scalp while I slept?”

  “And trimmed your beard.”

  His fingers immediately went to test her words. Even without a mirror, he could tell she’d done a fine job. He should say so, give her some form of gratitude, but all he could do was stare at her.

  “But it was Mama who changed your clothing,” she said, though she’d given him that information already. Did she fear he would think her loose, undressing a man without his consent? He reached for the bands on his arms, rubbing the frayed end of the last one between his fingers. What would he think if Millie had done something like that?

  “We were afraid you would die.”

  Her voice pulled him from his contemplations, and he leveled his gaze on her once more. “Would have been just fine for you to let me, Miss….” What was it? Marion?

  “Martin. Opal Martin.” She leaned in closer, and he caught another whiff of what reminded him of honey and fresh bread. “Do you remember how you came to be in the river, sir?”

  She probed at him with questions as though he had not just said she should have let him die in peace. He had the distinct feeling this particular little sparrow would not leave him be until she had satisfied herself with his well-being. He smirked. If that were the case, she may never be rid of him. The smile disappeared as suddenly as it began.

  Miss Martin scrunched her forehead. “Can you tell me your name?”

  Of course he could. Did the woman think him daft? “Lieutenant…” he trailed off and shook his head, sending another wave of pain skittering over his skull. War was over. He’d mustered out. The rank he’d earned on the field meant nothing once the band of volunteers had been broken and turned away to pick up the shattered pieces of their lives. “Mister Tristan Stuart.”

  “And where are you from, Mr. Stuart?”

  The words tasted bitter as he spat them out. “Used to be from Rolling Fork.”

  She seemed to contemplate the words, turning them over behind those pretty eyes. “My father knew some people from there. Forty miles is not all that far, but we didn’t see them much. Do you know the Parish family?”

  Bile rolled in his stomach. “Did.”

  Pain flared in her eyes and she nodded. “Of course. My apologies. Many were brave in their attempts to stop Porter’s invasion of the Yazoo.” She shook her head. “Who would have ever thought those gunships would have been able to squeeze down Deer Creek?” Her voice took on a faraway quality, as though she remembered the day that had changed his life.

  Brave, certainly. But failed attempts, all. He clenched his jaw. “Lot of good it did. Got those old ironsides stuck solid, but with Sherman driving his forces in, there was nothing they could really do. Nothing could stop that devil on his drive to the sea.”

  “They made Grant abandon his plans and retreat,” she said softly, as though that made any difference. Vicksburg had been lost a short time later regardless of their efforts.

  Rage flicked through him, a familiar burning as hot as Sherman’s flame
s. He tried to squelch it, but the widening of her eyes told him he’d failed. She gave a little shiver and watched his eyes for a moment, then drew a breath and leaned back away from him.

  “Well, it would seem you have use of your memory and senses.”

  He lifted his eyebrows, feeling the stitches at his hairline contract.

  She offered a small smile. Not the kind that spoiled belles flaunted, but the tempered kind of a woman familiar with the woes of the world. “With your injury,” she said, gesturing to his head, “I wanted to be sure.”

  Tristan looked around at the quiet lawn, trying to remember exactly what had occurred between stepping in the river and waking up here. But he wouldn’t tell the lady that, lest she begin fussing over him again. He rolled his legs under him and sat on his knees. She moved forward as though to help him, but then seemed to think better of it, allowing him the dignity of rising to his own feet.

  Once there, he felt a bit unstable, and his first step had him wobbling.

  “Mama!” Miss Martin gave a shout and then slipped her small frame underneath his arm, snaking her own arm across his lower back and using herself as a crutch to steady him.

  Tristan grabbed his head, the pounding increasing.

  “Shoo, you!” Miss Martin hissed, shaking her skirts at something.

  Still holding the palm of his hand into his left eye, Tristan followed the movement to a scraggly dog with mud colored fur staring up at him. It slashed its tail through the air, ears perked up.

  Tristan laughed at the absurdity of the situation, the response a near forgotten memory. Miss Martin stilled, and he could feel her eyes upon him even as he kept his gaze on the dog. The bit of mirth dissipated, like a burst of light swallowed by darkness.

  “This fellow here found me on the river bank,” Tristan mused. “Think he was the one that led me here.”

  Miss Martin scowled at the creature. “He’s been hanging around here for weeks now, and we can’t seem to be rid of him.”

  “Oh! He has come to!” Another lady’s voice, this one sounding older, came from behind him, and in a moment, Tristan found himself ensconced in a feminine embrace from both sides.