Chapter 21

Andrea stood beside the bed and gingerly lifted one edge of the sheet, exposing Captain Steele's naked, hairy leg. As legs went, it was a nice one, she thought, staring at it subjectively; long, well muscled... like the rest of him, well proportioned and lean. And infected.

Steele lay on his stomach, his eyes closed and she wondered if he had passed out. She could feel the heat he radiated even from here. While she prepared a drawing poultice, the two men had undressed him down to his union suit, and those they cut off above the bad knee and stripped the top down around his waist. She glanced uneasily at his holstered revolver hung over the bedpost near his head.

"Captain Steele?"

He stirred, opening his eyes. "Mrs. Winslow. I... I'm sorry."

"Don't be silly. You can't help being ill. Some people react badly to bites. But you should have told me before it got this bad."

"I thought it would get better. I'm not much use to you here." He looked at his surroundings. "Your room?"

"No," she answered.

"Thank God for that at least."

She poured tea from a china pot she'd brought in. "I've made a poultice for your leg. I've brought you some tea for the fever. Can you manage it?"

With an effort he pushed himself to his elbows and drank the tea she'd made of feverfew and holly for fever and pain, and meadowsweet to cleanse the blood. He made a face. As he collapsed back down on the bed he muttered, "So much for impressing you."

"Impressing me?"

He gave her a sheepish grin. "How's a man... supposed to catch a girl's interest... flat on his belly on account of a bug bite?"

She blinked in surprise, not knowing what to say. So she squeezed a cloth out in the pan of cool water she'd brought up, and sponged off his back. "You've got a fever, Captain Steele. I believe you're delirious."

He swallowed thickly. "The fever's loosened my tongue, ma'am. Not my mind."

Wringing it out again, she laid it across the back of his neck. She fumbled with the warm poultice she'd wrapped in cheesecloth. "A right-minded man wouldn't have let an infection get away from him this way."

"Stupid of me."

"Foolish and stubborn," she agreed, pressing the warm compress against the back of his sore leg. He sucked in breath through gritted teeth and stiffened. "With luck," she said, "this will draw out the poison and infection."

He wrinkled his nose. "Smells like—"

"—mashed carrots. They were going to be for dinner, but they'll do more good here. There's some baking soda and St. John's Wort in it, too. My tea will help the fever. You must lie still. If this doesn't work, I will send for the doctor whether you like it or not."

She started to rise, but he caught her hand.

"Mrs. Winslow?"

His skin was hot and dry and she was reminded, despite his banter, how sick he really was. Even so, his grip was firm, yet tender.

"Thank you, for your kindness," he said weakly.

She smiled. "You can thank me by doing as I say and getting well." She turned to find Jesse standing in the doorway, glaring at the two of them. How long had he been standing there? she wondered. Picking up the pan of water, she said, "Excuse me, Captain."

She met Jesse at the doorway and walked past him into the kitchen. He followed on her heels. "So? What happened?"

"He's sick."

"Sick? Sick, how? With what? Is he contagious?"

"No," she replied, turning toward him. "He was bitten... by a spider."

Jesse's scowl slid into a disbelieving grin. "A spider?"

She lifted her chin. "Yes, a spider! Some people have serious reactions to them. It may have been a brown recluse. Captain Steele simply let it go. His leg is quite infected."

Jesse swatted irritably across the top of a freshly baked loaf of bread cooling on the table. "Well, at least that's pretty damned convenient for him isn't it?"

"Convenient?"

"He comes here to protect you and winds up right here under your roof, half-naked, getting your undivided attention..."

"Do you think I planned this?" She tossed the water out the kitchen door and stalked back to the pump, cranking the handle three times.

"No, but maybe he did."

"Oh, come on—"

"Hey, I've seen him making calf-eyes at you all week—"

She turned on him, eyes wide with insult. "That's ridiculous."

"—and you've been making them right back."

"I have not!"

He smiled grimly. "You're blushing, Andi."

Her hand went automatically to her hot cheek, then she glared at him. "What if I am? And what if he is interested in me? What difference could that possibly make to you? In fact, I think it should fit into your plans for me rather nicely." She turned and primed the pump again. The water went splashing into the metal bowl with a musical ping.

Jesse clenched his fists, wondering if she wasn't absolutely right. "You're so worried about what people think, how will it look having a strange man under your roof while you're alone in this house?"

"You slept here," she pointed out, her back firmly to him.

"Yeah, but I'm not a stranger."

She looked at him sideways. "That's a matter of opinion."

He smiled humorlessly. "The fact is, this is my house, too. My bed, as a matter of fact."

"You're sleeping in the barn remember?" she retorted.

"Not exactly out of choice."

She lifted the enameled bowl. "Oh? I thought everything you did was out of choice, Jesse."

He swallowed hard. "Some choices are not as wise as we might have wished they'd been."

"Unfortunately, that's true," she said lowering her head.

Jesse knew instantly what she thought he meant. He took a step closer to her wanting to reach out and draw her in his arms. "I didn't mean about making love to you, Andi."

She met his gaze evenly. "Is that what it was?" She started to go, but he stopped her, taking the bowl of water from her and setting it on the table.

He took her shoulders in his hands. "You know damn well it was."

She shook her head. "I've got to get back."

"Andi," he said almost desperately, "what can I say?"

"There's nothing to say."

He released her. "You mean, there's nothing you want to hear. From me, at least."

She bowed her head again. Her voice, when she spoke was controlled and low. "Let's not hurt each other by saying more, all right? I'm going to go back and tend to Captain Steele. Despite what you think of him, he's a very nice man, Jesse. I like him and I'm going to make sure he gets well. And if, by the Grace of God, something good comes of his presence here, then maybe, just maybe I'll be happy. Is that so bad?"

Something shrank inside him. "No. That's not bad. Not at all."

He turned and walked out the door. His feet covered the yard in ground-eating steps, but he shoved down the urge to run, as far and as fast as he could.

* * *

That evening, Andrea sat up with Captain Steele, sponging him off, changing the poultice. The swelling on his leg began to respond by nightfall, but the fever stubbornly remained. He slept most of the time, often waking only to drink the teas she brewed for him.

By the next afternoon, his fever was down some as well, though not gone completely, but he was able to sit up in bed and feed himself the soup she'd brought him. When he'd finished, Andrea set his bowl back on the tray and rose to go.

"I know I've already demanded too much of your time, Mrs. Winslow, but can you stay for a minute?"

She smiled down at him. "Yes, Captain, what is it?" She sat down again, her knees brushing the colorful sunflower-pattern patchwork quilt covering his bed.

"I don't know how to thank you for everything you've done for me."

"There's no need for that."

"I mean, I'm a stranger to you. You didn't owe me that kind of care."

She shook her head. "I would have done the same for anyone in your situation."

"I know. That's my point exactly." His brown eyes searched hers. The flecks of gold that swam in his irises were fringed by thick dark lashes that seemed to make his paleness all the more stark. Two days growth of beard shaded his jaw.

"You're a remarkable woman, Mrs. Winslow," he said.

Andrea smiled and touched his forehead with the backs of her fingers. "Are you sure that fever isn't still making you ramble, Captain?"

He caught her hand and brought her fingers to his lips. With a brush as gentle as a hummingbird wing, he kissed her. His whiskers tickled her skin.

"Captain!" she scolded in breathy surprise, pulling her hand from his.

Humor curved his mouth. "Forgive me for taking liberties with your fingers, Mrs. Winslow. But I can hardly bear the thought of losing your gentle touch."

Andrea pressed her hands in her lap and looked at the floor.

"I've embarrassed you," he said.

She shook her head. "I'm a grown woman, Captain, without schoolgirl fantasies. And I'd be lying if I said your sentiments didn't flatter me. But we hardly know one another."

He nodded with fatigue, and picked at a thread on the quilt beneath his hands. "You know, I've been fighting in this war for nearly two-and-a-half years now. I've seen men come into my unit and die the same day. I've had lifelong friends killed before my eyes. And I've come to know others better in the space of an hour on a battlefield than I might have in years were it not for our situation.

"I feel that way with you," he went on. "An experience like this one can cut propriety to the bone, and can certainly dispense with the kind of limitations society places on friendship between men and women."

She regarded him for a long moment. "What exactly are you trying to say, Captain? That we're friends?"

He sighed. "Actually, I'm beginning to feel something more than simple friendship for you. In fact, that first day I laid eyes on you in town, I felt an attraction. Does that frighten you?" He gave a nervous laugh. "Repulse you?"

She smiled. "No."

Encouraged, he sat up straighter against the pillows, wincing at the pain in his leg. "Mrs. Winslow, I haven't time or inclination to be backward about this. God only knows how much longer this war will last, or if all your work here will be undone by one untimely bullet when I go back into battle. But it would give me great comfort, should I be so fortunate as to escape unscathed, that I might come back this way, and perhaps you would not be too unhappy to see me."

Andrea felt the room press in on her and her pulse thud in her ears. She let her gaze drift away from the Captain and settle on Jesse's spare shirt hanging from a peg across the room.

Micah Steele's words didn't come as a complete surprise, though hearing them now, she didn't know what to say. He asked for no more than friendship: no commitment, no promise; simply a thread of hope that when, or if, the time came she'd receive him kindly.

And why not? she asked herself. Was he not exactly the sort of man she should be looking for? Steady, kind, even handsome? A man who'd been raised on a farm and didn't hate every spadeful of dirt he'd ever turned? Yes, she'd be a fool to say no. Even though she felt nothing more than friendship for him now, there was nothing to say she wouldn't some day feel more. And to deny that eventuality before it had a chance to bloom would be not only foolhardy, but idiotic.

When she didn't reply right away, Steele's weary gaze dropped to his hands. "Mrs. Winslow, I certainly understand if you don't want to—"

"No, Captain," she said, stopping him by placing her hand over his. "As a matter of fact, I hope very much that if you should ever pass this way again you would consider me friend enough to remember me with a visit."

"You do? You would?"

"Yes, I would," she answered with a smile.

Steele swallowed hard, visibly relieved. She noticed his cheeks had flushed again with unnatural heat.

"That's... well... that's fine," he said. "I'll surely... try my best to keep, that promise to you, Mrs. Winslow."

"God willing, you shall." She got to her feet. "But if you don't get some rest, that may never come to pass." She touched his forehead once more and found it slightly warmer. "Now I must go. My son will be waking any minute hungry and I have a thousand things that need doing."

"Of course," he said, slipping down on his pillow as if the conversation had sapped him of strength. "I'll be out of here by tonight. My men—"

"—are managing quite well without you believe it or not," she told him. "You need another day in bed at least, until that fever is completely gone. You get some rest, Captain."

He watched her, lids growing heavy. "Maybe just a little rest... just for a few more... hours..." His words drifted off and she could see he had fallen asleep where he lay.

Andrea took up the tray with a satisfied smile and headed with it back into the kitchen. Her smile faded when she came face to face with Jesse, who'd been leaning over the kitchen table making himself a sandwich out of leftover chicken and fresh bread.

"Jesse."

"You don't mind if I help myself do you?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm, scanning the empty kitchen. "I never heard the dinner bell and I'm hungry."

She set the tray down on the table, guilt rushing through her. She'd been so busy with Captain Steele and Zachary she hadn't had time to make more than the soup still warming on the stove. "Here, I can do that," she told him.

"Never mind. I'm done," he said, tearing off a bite of sandwich.

"There's soup on the stove."

"Broth," he corrected. "For a sick man. Not for a man who's still got a day's work ahead of him." He leaned one hip against the counter, watching her. His hands and face were the only clean parts of him. A day in the cornfield had left him sweaty, covered with dirt and smelling of the fields, but eternally, damnably handsome.

"I'm sorry, Jesse," she said, casting those thoughts away. "I'll make something for you right now."

He tore another bite from his sandwich. "This will do," he said with his mouth full.

She poured him a glass of buttermilk from the cloth-covered jug and set it on the counter beside him. He chugged it down immediately, then tore another bite from his sandwich, all the while staring at her. Busying herself with the Captain's dishes, she felt Jesse's gaze burning into her back.

"By the way, have you seen Mahkwi?" he asked.

"No, I thought she was with you."

He glanced out the window. "No... she's probably off carousing or hunting up moles. She's been cutting out far afield lately."

From the parlor came the sound of Zachary's wakeful cries. Andrea reached for a towel to dry her hands, but Jesse stuffed the last bite in his mouth and held out an arm to stop her. "No, I'll get him."

Surprised, Andrea nodded and went back to her dishes. With one ear cocked to the other room, she waited for Jesse and the baby to return. When five minutes passed, she wiped her hands on the towel anyway and walked quietly to the parlor door. She found Jesse leaning over Zachary, fastening—with some difficulty—a clean nappy around the baby's hips. The wet one lay in a soggy pile on the floor, but Andrea didn't think to complain.

Instead, she found herself mesmerized by the sight of the two of them together, man and child, communicating with smiles. Zachary stared raptly at a smiling Jesse, fists waving in the air.

"Now, doesn't it feel better to have dry britches, Corncob?" Jesse asked, and frowned at the stubborn clasp.

"Da-da-da-da!" Zachary cried.

Jesse froze and swallowed heavily.

"Da-da!"

Andrea's hand went involuntarily to her mouth. It wasn't the first time her son had strung that sound together by accident—and since she'd never used the word "daddy" for Jesse, she was certain it was just that—but Zachary had never done it for Jesse before. The effect was startling.

Jesse wiped his hands on his back pockets and stared at Zachary as if he'd bit him. "Hey, Corncob," he said warily. "That's no way to be talking to your uncle. Say Jesse? Jesseee?"

"Da-da-da-da!"

"No, kid. Jesseee."

Zachary blew a bubble.

Andrea forced a bright smile and stepped into the room. "Well you two, what's going on in here?"

Jesse straightened guiltily and looked at her. "I was just... ya know... he was, uh, wet."

Andrea reached for the diaper, fastened it and lifted Zachary into her arms with a flourish. "Thanks, Jess." She rubbed her nose against her son's chubby belly, evoking a giggle from him. "Did Uncle Jesse change your nappies, sugar plum?" Her eyes met Jesse's for a fleeting moment. "Wasn't that nice of him?"

Jesse shifted uncomfortably beside her as Zachary reached out for him.

"What?" Andrea asked. "You want Jesse back?"

"Da-da-da-da-da!" Zachary exclaimed, obviously enjoying the clucking noise his tongue made against the roof of his mouth.

Jesse smiled uncomfortably. "He's got a good strong voice."

"Yes, he does."

He reached out and allowed the baby to curl his fist around one large finger. "I gotta go, Corncob, but I'll see you later." He pried the small fist loose to the protest of Zachary.

"How's the harvest coming?" Andrea asked, following Jesse back into the kitchen.

"We're still shocking. We'll start husking the seed corn by the end of the week. Another five or six days... we'll be done." He fitted his hat on his head and sent her a half-hearted smile.

"Oh," she replied.

Silence stretched between them, then they both spoke at once. "Well, I guess—" he began.

"Supper will be—"

They both stopped mid-sentence and looked uncomfortable. "You go," he prompted.

"Supper will be ready when you are," she promised.

He nodded. "Oh, yeah, Silas told me to tell you he'd be eating at the Rafferty's tonight. So it's just you and me for supper." He opened the door and looked back at her. "And, of course, the U.S. Army."

* * *

Silas sat down beside Etta on the circular wrought-iron bench that surrounded the old elm tree in the Rafferty yard. The moonlight spilled down on them through the swaying branches above. Leaning his head back against the bark of the tree, he stared at the three-quarter moon.

"You reckon that ol' moon looks the same up in the North as it do right here?" he asked Etta.

She nestled her head against his shoulder and nodded. "We're in the North, Silas."

"I mean... the truly North. Like... Dee-troit."

"It looks just the same," she said slowly. "Why?"

"'Cause, I'd sorely miss seein' it if it don't."

She sat up at that and stared at him. "What are you talking about?" She shook her head disparagingly. "Dee-troit... why there's nothing there, but a lot of people and buildings and shops where folks like us sweat sixteen hours a day."

"For money," Silas added.

"Not enough money. Not enough to make it worth living like that. I've been there. Air smells like a smokestack, and the rooms folks live in are crowded and bug-infested. Silas, you're not thinking of—"

"I's thinkin' of a lot of things," he said, looking down at her. "Mostly, how I can keep a woman like you happy."

She shook her head. "You old fool. Don't you know I am happy? Can't you see it on my face? It's been a long time since I've been happy like this."

He smiled when she threaded her arm through his and leaned her head back against his shoulder. "I don't mean jus' for today, Etta," he said softly. "I mean... for the rest o' our days."

She went rigid beside him, but didn't look up. "A-are you asking me to marry you, Mr. Mayfield?"

"I reckon so, Mrs. Gaines."

She sat up slowly. She pushed her spectacles up on her nose with one finger and looked him in the eye. "You mean it? You're not just joking with me are you? 'Cause if you were, I—"

He silenced her with a kiss, wrapping his big hand around the back of her head and pulling her close. His mouth moved over hers with the sweet pressure of desire. "That feel like a joke?" he asked when he released her.

Stunned, she shook her head. "No." Then a slow smile spread over her face. "No," she repeated and pressed her full mouth against his once more.

Silas drew her into his arms and held her tight against him. "My feelin's for you ain't nothin' I cares to joke 'bout, Etta."

"Nor do I. Oh, Silas, I never thought I'd feel this way again." She sighed. "It makes no sense, because we're as different as day and night."

"Apples an' oranges," he agreed.

"Scissors and paper," she added. "But maybe that's why it's good, you know? Maybe my late husband, Marcus, and I were too much alike. We thought alike, taught alike, spoke alike..."

He laughed. "You ain't gots to worry about that with me."

"No, I don't. And if you can stand my—as you call it—'prissiness,' I can certainly stand your conjugations."

"My what?"

"Never mind." She smiled and tightened her arms around his chest.

"Only thing is," he said, "I ain't got no notion how we's gonna live. You go to Dee-troit with me?"

"We don't have to go to Dee-troit. I've got a job... and you've got a job..."

Silas scoffed. "We ain't never gonna get ahead that way. And how we gonna live? Me there, an' you here?"

Her thumb trailed absently back and forth across his sleeve. "Mr. John, he was just saying the other day—like he does at harvest time every year—how he couldn't handle all the land he had. He was thinking of selling some of it off."

"I can't buy it."

"No," she agreed, "not now. But there's not much market on land now either. Maybe he'd let you work it for a few years, and share the profit with him until you can pay it off. I read there's talk of that sort of arrangement already cropping up in the South."

Silas frowned, considering it. "I don't know."

She sat up, excited. "Why not? I've got some money put aside. We could build ourselves a little house on the land and I could keep working for the Raffertys and you could keep working for the Winslows. We'd make it. I know we would."

"You think Mister John would do somethin' like that?"

"There's only one way to find out," she said, kissing Silas on the cheek. "We ask him."