Of course, he couldn’t take the man under his care, ruining his career, but she could. Anger flared at the mere thought that she could sacrifice but not him.
She’d been furious her patients were taken from her so easily that day, Waxler demonstrating how her place was not in practicing medicine. He’d gone further on that once they’d returned to Washington, complaining to the right set of men who’d reduced her position back to nursing, despite all her education and proven abilities. The only slight redeeming factor was the patients she helped through Mrs. Turner’s recommendation, women who were in need of medical care since the majority of physicians were dealing with the Union soldiers. Granted, this case might heal that wound Waxler had started…
“All right. I’ll try. Where is he?”
Francois swung between confusion and unstableness to vaguely cognizant of where he was, or so he thought. Pain was the one constant, ebbing from stabbing deep and sharp to mildly annoying nuisance. What he wouldn’t give to not have it at all!
The last few days, maybe they were weeks, a small voice in his head echoed, teetered in his mind. He’d seen the darkness and the hell that rose from its depths, to bright light and warmth. That had made him wonder if he was dead, waiting for judgment while sitting in purgatory, except he didn’t think that room had everyone else come and go, as he seemed to see people then they were gone, and if his recollection was in place, he didn’t think they were dead.
Memories of the battle danced in his head. The sound of the artillery, the squeals of maimed horses and the moans of wounded men, the whizzing in the air like insects but these bites tore human flesh with a voracity that could kill. Cold and dampness never left, or so he thought. The battlefield was freezing and the prison no improvement. Even now, in purgatory, he shivered, yet the blazing hell ate at him at times before another blanket of ice settled.
He’d seen the house he was taken to, controlled by the Yankees but after that, the scenes blurred. There was a march of sorts, one he stumbled through before collapsing and being thrown like a bale of cotton onto a wagon, to end up in a barrack with no heat, fed sparingly of greasy food and murky water. Vague memories of his fellow soldiers danced in his head, as did the changeling angel, who looked like Emma or his mother or this woman at the Federal house who’d prodded at his injury like he was a piglet. Damn, he was thirsty but had no strength to see if there was any water or perhaps fearful there was, because the dark cell’s only drink was actually grimy to swallow, as if it carried sand or poison or both, leaving an odd taste in his mouth. The thought made him pale…
Suddenly, a brisk of air flew into the room as the door opened. After the hours of silence, the commotion was startling and Francois nerves tingled at the coolness, interrupting his warm nest on the bed. A bed, he realized, that was like those at home—soft and cozy. A true bed. God, it’d been long time since he’d been in one of these.
But his sudden realization and longing to snuggle further came to a screeching halt as his movement jostled his injured ankle, sending jabs of pain racing up his leg. He bit his inner lip, refusing to let these visitors see him agonized. Besides, he had no idea who they were, perhaps angels…or demons…
“Oh, my dear Francois, what have you done?”
His mother loomed over him, concern etched across her face. He tried to focus. Marie Fontaine was a force to be reckon with, so these white face ghosts that hovered behind her were in for a rude awakening. That thought almost made him laugh. What was his mother doing here? Wherever here was? But there was something about her being nearby, to see her loving face and the golden glow of her hair making her look angelic warmed him.
Marie gave a quick examination to his ankle and tsked angrily. “I knew I should have forbade you from your self-conceived doubt. War is no place for my boys.” She shook her head and it sent a pang that reached inside him, wrapping around his spine and making him shudder.
Then she made a light, casual touch of his foot and the result ripped through him like a cannon shot. He nearly leaped off the bed, wanting to beg her to stop, as her hand still maneuvered the ankle and foot. It wasn’t a harsh, abrupt exam, but it was enough to make him groan. He squeezed his lids tight, working hard to control the pain and bite back the roar that threatened to escape.
“Shhh,” Marie whispered, her tone soothing and touching his soul. She rubbed his cheek softly. “Don’t move. Tell me what happened.”
He opened his mouth to answer but she tipped a cup to his parched lips, and with it being his mother, he couldn’t refuse. The liquid wasn’t tea, as he suspected, but it had an odd taste, one he swore he knew. Whatever it was, a wave of calm spread through him and his thoughts blurred, and the pain ebbed. For once, in a long time it seemed, he was comfortable, warm and felt the wave of love coming from his mother. He wanted to sigh with relief.
But the relief never came. Instead, the cozy feeling shattered as hell returned. He shot halfway upright automatically as she moved his foot, the lightning hurt raced through him.
“What the hell!” He roared, his eyes
