near gone, from what I can tell,' Noma whispered. 'He's a soldier; blue or gray, I can't say. There's blood and mud everywhere.' She rose slowly to her feet. 'He'll be dead before morning.'
'No!' Perry said bitterly. 'No.' The hopelessness of her own plight was momentarily forgotten. She was sick to the core of all the dying. 'Noma, we must do something. I don't want to see another man die as long as I live.'
The mighty heave of Noma's chest told Perry that the slave didn't share her concern for this man's life, but Noma nodded. 'I hear you, Miz Perry. There ain't no use to argue when you use that stubborn tone with me. Sometimes I think you and your brother were fathered by a mule and nursed by the Angel of Mercy, the way you carry on about folks who are sick and dying.' Noma pulled off her wool scarf. 'If you'll get that bucket downstairs and fill it with rainwater, I'll clean off some of this blood and see what we can do for this soldier boy.''
All fatigue was forgotten as Perry fetched the water.
As Perry returned with the water Noma was already hard at work. The black woman had often helped Andrew with the doctoring before the war. Other slaves said Noma had healing hands, even if her heart was sometimes cold. This stranger was in good care.
'Dig that knife outa that pouch you brought with your mother's papers and things.' Noma was too busy to look up. 'Cut me some bandages outa what's left of his shirt.'
Perry followed instructions. By the time Noma had the blood cleaned off, a stack of bandages lay waiting.
As she knelt a few feet away, watching Noma work, Perry absentmindedly braided her black hair into one long chain of silky ebony. Her hair had always been a source of joy to her father. Perry knew he would have frowned to see how it had been twisted and hidden under her dirty hat. But a lady didn't travel alone, especially if she was wanted for treason. The old clothes were her only hope of escaping Captain Williams and his band of Yankees that rode across the Carolinas. She knew she'd traveled far enough south to be well behind the lines. Within another day she would be completely out of any Yankee's reach. Yet this man before her fought a battle within, and for him there was no safe ground.
The stranger's chest, stripped of shirt and blood, seemed like only muscle pulled over bone with no softness. Though his face was a shadow, Perry wondered about his identity. He might be a poor Southern farm boy running away from more fighting, or maybe one of the many Northern spies infiltrating the South. Watching his life ebb, Perry concluded that it didn't matter. Maybe Noma was right: Stubbornness and mercy were both her strengths and her curse. If this man died, she'd feel the pain of his loss without even knowing his name.
Noma shook her head as she leaned back from her patient. 'Without a fire it's going to be hard keeping this fella alive.' She rubbed the small of her back and waddled to the far side of the loft. 'I'm going to curl up and let this old body get a few hours' sleep. Unless it stops raining, we ain't going anywhere come morning.'
Perry noticed the first hint of daybreak. 'I'll sit by him awhile. You get some sleep.' She covered an already snoring Noma with their only blanket.
Slowly she crawled to the sleeping soldier, studying him closely. His hair grew lighter with the morning. Sunny blond strands covered his forehead and brushed his sleeping eyes. His jawline was strong and covered with sandy, short whiskers; his mouth was generous, relaxed in sleep. Gently Perry touched a curl hanging across his forehead. With a will of its own the curl wrapped around her finger, surprising her with its tender gesture.
In the early dawn light the sleeping man's lips thinned, and his face contracted in pain. A sudden chill overtook him and he shook violently, as though the entire earth were unsteady beneath him. War raged within him, a war of life over death.
Sliding down beside him in the hay, Perry pressed against his body while pulling her large coat over them both in a tight cocoon. He was hard and muscular in her arms, but she felt death's cold hands chilling him from within. Her body was all that warmed him.
His unharmed arm encircled her, pulling her closer to his lean frame. His fingers slid down her back, molding her close, as though he craved the feel of another human being in his last moments of life.
Perry knew she should pull away, but she couldn't deny this man the comfort he desperately seemed to need. His fingers moved slowly along her body, touching her as no other ever would have dared. Her shirt and trousers did little to buffer the boldness of his touch as his hand traced lightly across her.
The stranger's action seemed easy, almost casual, as if he were merely assuring himself of her presence. But Perry burned with each of his strokes. Many times she'd longed to be held as a woman, but the war never allowed the luxury of romance. This man's touch caused a storm inside her, where only calmness had resided. A turmoil swirled within her blood like a whispering wind that warns of a raging tempest to come.
Any moment she might be caught by the Yankees and never know the touch of a lover's hands. She wanted his gentle movements to continue, telling her of a closeness she'd never known before and might never know again.
He pulled her against him and nestled his head beside her hair. His arm remained protectively across her as his breathing slowed slightly. A sense of belonging, of homecoming, drifted over Perry.
As the minutes passed, she could feel the heat within her body moving to him. Perry relaxed. The shared warmth, combined with her lack of sleep, drew a curtain of drowsiness about her. She slept soundly for the first time in three days, her arms around a man about whom she knew nothing, not even his name.
Afternoon crept upon them as silently as a dream steals between thoughts. The rain slowed to a drizzle and the March wind faded to a low whine. Light seeped through the cracks of the barn walls, erasing the shadow's domain. Noma stretched out in the corner. Perry rolled a foot from the stranger and sat up, surprised she'd lain so close to him. Noma stood, mumbling something about breakfast as she joined Perry.
'How bad was he shot?' Perry finally spoke the question that had haunted her during the hours she'd held him.
The black woman yawned and answered. 'Near as I can figure, he weren't shot at all. Looks like somethin' heavy crashed into his shoulder and ripped his muscles apart. It puzzles me how he was hurt. On the right side of his neck and both his hands, there's marks like a rope burn I saw once. It don't make much sense at all.'
Looking intently at Perry, she continued. 'But one thing's for sure, Miz Perry. If he does come around, you better keep your hat pulled low. We don't know what kind of man he is, and better he thinks you're a boy.'
Perry smiled to herself. Unless the man was totally void of the sense of touch, he already knew her gender. Just the memory of his hand moving over her made her blush.
Noma wrapped her shawl around her bulk. 'If he makes it, we'll have to feed him. I'll be back shortly. I'll walk till I find food and maybe information. There's bound to be folks around here somewhere. That thunder sounds like cannon fire. If I don't check it out, we may end up in the middle of this damn war yet.' She continued mumbling as she left the loft, grunting in rhythm with the ladder.
Calling up quietly, Noma instructed, 'Pull the ladder up so no one will notice the loft if they should wander in.'
'Be careful,' Perry answered.
Noma shoved the barn door open. 'Don't worry about me. Ain't nobody interested in an old black woman. If I see any soldiers, I'll just hide till they pass.'
Perry watched her leave, then pulled the ladder up, feeling as if she'd been abandoned. She sat beside the stranger, trying to understand why she felt somehow tied to him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, about the same age as her brother. His tan was deep and the tiny wrinkles around his eyes indicated he spent a great deal of time in the sun. Judging from his sun-bleached hair, it seemed he'd done so without a hat. The whisker stubble and dirt couldn't conceal the fact that he was by far the most handsome man she'd ever seen.
The warmth of the stranger's body drew her close. His breathing had a slow, regular rhythm. One determined ray of sun splashed planes of light and shadow across his face. Her eyes drifted past his strong chin to the bandages Noma had wrapped around his shoulder.
Something glimmered at his neck, twinkling in a moment of sun like a slender gold cord. Curiosity forced her to tug at the fine yellow rope. A round gold disk appeared from behind his neck and slid lazily along the chain into Perry's fingers. She turned it slowly from side to side, examining the disk in the dingy light. One side bore a crest unlike any Perry had ever seen. On the other side it was engraved, simply, Hunter Kirkland.
Perry smiled to herself. She now knew the injured man's name. Hunter. He was no longer an unknown soldier.
