the boys were left behind last week to guard this place, and we haven't seen more'n a jackrabbit. If you got news, we'd be glad to share our grub.'
Abram climbed down from the wagon. 'Have you a dry bed for the captain? He needs to be out of this damp weather.''
'Beds are all full. We're sleeping four to a room upstairs. The only fireplaces that work are downstairs. Those rooms are reserved for officers' meetings, but we ain't got any here now.'' The guard looked at Hunter. Perry could see by the curiosity in the boy's eyes that he'd never seen the pain of battle. 'There's a formal dining room. Reckon we could put a mattress over the table for a night. Ain't no bigwigs here to eat off it.' The soldier seemed fascinated by the red spot on Hunter's bandage. 'We leave a guard on duty in the hall, so you don't need to worry about some deserter killin' him in his sleep. We can build a fire big enough to warm his bones.'
Abram nodded. 'Thanks for your kindness. I'll sleep with the horses in the barn. We've already had them almost stolen once. I'm not giving anyone another chance. Do you have a warm place for the boy?' He pointed at Perry. 'He's been feeling poorly lately.'
The guard glanced at Perry. 'Reckon he could sleep in the kitchen. There's a cook and her grandson in there now, but she goes to her place at night.'
Perry was amazed at how fast they settled inside. In a little over an hour Hunter was resting in his bed on a huge formal dining table, and Abram disappeared into the barn for his first sleep in two days.
She helped all she could, then took a blanket from the wagon and headed for a corner in the kitchen. The old cook and a boy of about seven were banking the fire for the night when she opened the kitchen door. Without a word the cook filled two bowls with butter beans and ham. She gave one to her grandson with instructions to take it to the man in the barn and handed the other to Perry.
While Perry ate, the woman mumbled, 'When you finish, there's a medicine kit if that bandaged hand needs care. I wanta head home before the storm starts pouring and I get stuck here for the night.'
'Thanks,' Perry said between bites. The old woman's face remained as cold as a three-day-old corpse until her grandson returned. She managed a half smile for the boy but huffed her disapproval when he sat down next to Perry and began rattling away.
'Wanta see somethin' really fine?' The boy's eyes sparkled.
Perry couldn't help but smile and mentally braced herself for a frog, or whatever the child might consider a wonder in this world.
The boy danced over to a corner of the kitchen and lifted a trapdoor. 'This here's a tunnel from the kitchen to the main house. Goes right into the dining room. Before the war, we carried tray after tray of food over to the fine folks and never had to worry about rain or snow. They always made us whistle when going through the tunnel so's none of us would try having a snack on the way. Plus, I think it scared fine folks to have kids appearing in the corner of the dining room without notice. We call it Whistling Tunnel.'
The cook waddled closer, pulling on her coat. She nodded a slight farewell to Perry. 'You can use it to check on that wounded captain during the night.' Her words were matter-of-fact, as though she had long ago lost interest in anything this world had to offer. 'If you try going outside and up the back steps, you're likely to be shot as a prowler.''
'Thanks,' Perry answered sincerely, though the advice was not given with any kindness.
The old woman shuffled and tied her ragged wool scarf around her neck. 'Just don't wanta clean your blood off the steps come morning. Plus it looks like it's really gonna rain, and I don't relish you tracking mud all over the dining room and my kitchen if you make a trip.' She pointed toward the corner near the fire. 'There's a hip tub over there if you want a bath. From the looks of ya, you might be doing the world a favor to have one. Don't reckon nobody be coming in here if you bolt the door after us.'
Perry couldn't help but smile. The old cook was trying to be kind, but lack of practice left her rusty.
The woman pulled her boy toward the door. 'There's clean clothes in that basket. You might find something to sleep in besides those bloody rags you're wearia', and I doubt if any one of them soldiers got sense enough to notice somethin' gone.'
Perry would've hugged the cook if she hadn't vanished through the doorway an instant later. Her suggestion sounded too good to pass up. Perry locked the door and put water on to boil. She stripped off her clothes and took a long bath to the music of a heavy spring thunderstorm outside. She scrubbed her skin almost raw and washed her hair until her arms ached. Her problems seemed far more bearable as she dried before the fire. With salve and a fresh bandage across her palm, she felt not only human but a lady again.
She found a huge white shirt with ruffles down the front in the clean laundry. The shirt was long enough to be a nightgown, and with the sleeves rolled up it looked almost elegant. Her hair curled and waved around her in a black cloud of silk. She couldn't bear to bind it up, though she knew she should.
Laying Hunter's necklace atop her pile of dirty clothes, she noticed how foreign it looked there, as foreign as a Southern lady in a northern camp. The only gold in this mess was the chance to be near Hunter. During the idle times of the ride she'd let herself imagine what it would be like to be loved by such a man.
Perry lit a candle and decided to try the passageway. She'd seen all the lights go out in the main house an hour before and knew all the soldiers were asleep, except for the guard on duty in the main hall.
She told herself she. only wanted to check on Hunter's health, but she knew that was only half the truth. She longed to touch him once more before she had to disappear from his life. One memory of being in his arms would carry her the rest of her life… one last moment of being totally alive.
The tunnel was dry and brick-lined. There were no spiders or mice, only the earthy smell of the damp dirt above her. The brick slanted upward until she came to a stairway. She blew out the light, not wanting to announce her presence until she was certain Hunter was alone in the dining room.
Hunter tried to sleep, but the thunder pounded against the dining room's long windows like cannon fire, and the lightning flashed, reminding him of battle. He hated being too weak to move more than a few inches. He hated the constant pain that throbbed in his shoulder. He hated being alone in this old room. But most of all he hated admitting to his weakness.
He closed his eyes and cursed the war for the hundredth time. He wanted a life outside of a uniform. He wanted rest. He wanted to feel more than hate and duty before he was too old to feel anything but pain. The fever always seemed worse at night, making him light-headed and confused.
A creaking sound came from the corner. Hunter's senses came alert. He slowly turned his head toward the noise as his one good arm reached for the holstered revolver above his pillow.
The sound came again, like aging hedges crying with movement. He searched the darkness.
Lightning flashed against the windows as bright as day. Hunter turned his stare for a moment toward the curtains. The yellowed lace looked aflame, then darkened back into pale stillness. The thunder that followed sounded like the heavens were falling upon the house.
Hunter looked back at the corner of the room, but nothing was there. He had only imagined the noise, as he'd imagined so many other things since his fall a few days ago. The corner was as bare as the rest of the room… as the rest of his life.
He sighed heavily and pressed his palm against his forehead. Sleep seemed his only escape from the pain, and it was a welcome comfort. He wouldn't think of the loneliness or the throbbing in his shoulder. He would only relax and dream.
A soft hand covered his own in the darkness. Hunter didn't move, knowing his feverish mind was playing yet another trick on him.
His fingers slid from his face, but the soft pressure of a woman's hand remained against his forehead. 'I knew you'd come in my dreams again,' he said without surprise.
The hand trembled slightly, as if debating vanishing, then hesitantly stroked his hair back from his face.
'Tell me, my angel, are you the angel of life or death?'
'Your fever is no longer high.' Her voice whispered, as soft as the palest hue, reminding him of his mother's Southern tones. 'I think you'll live.'
Hunter's fingers circled her wrist and pulled her nearer. 'Lie with me. I don't want to be alone… even if my companion is only a dream.'
The woman he'd thought of so often climbed atop the table with him. He could see the velvety black hair surrounding her face, which was still in shadow. Hunter moved his fingers and trailed the lines of her jaw. 'I can only see your outline, yet I can sense your beauty with my touch. Lie beside me as you did in the loft.'
