Taking a linen cloth, she soaked it in the washbasin with water and draped it over a bottle near the window. “Hmmm. You may be trying a bit too much too soon.” Grabbing the now cold linen strip, she returned to his ankle and wrapped it. The cold made him jump.
“Ouch! You trying to kill me?”
She laughed. “Now, we’ve done this before. It’ll get the swelling down.” She put the injured foot on a folded blanket to elevate it. “We’ll try to slowly unstiffen it and keep it on the heel for a bit more.”
“Hard to see how it’ll ‘unstiffen’ when you freeze it,” he growled.
That made her smile. “One thing at a time.” She leaned back, her medical background working a mile a minute when the reality hit her in the gut. Will knew her too well. He was correct. This injury was a challenge and her with her undying need to help others, the one that drove her through medical school when women were barely permitted to breathe, the same drive that pushed her to help the Union army medical corps, despite their refusal to accept her as anything other than a nurse, now compelled her to see this patient recover. Again, her analytical mind went over the chain of events. He seemed so close. If her surgery on him worked, he’d shown her he’d possibly walk again.
Fury pounced again up her spine. Damn Will and damn his knowing her so well! Crossing her arms as she now started to pace, she realized she couldn’t turn him in. Oh, how she wanted to scream and squash the inner thoughts that plotted out a course of action to get this soldier moving again.
It was the warmth of his gaze as he watched her traipse back and forth across the room that finally grabbed her attention. Inhaling deeply, she realized what she must do.
“As to the packing,” she started. “We’re leaving here. I’m on furlough for a fortnight. We will work on your rehabilitation, but not here.”
His shoulders straightened and he sat upright more sternly. “I take it you mean to send me back to prison.”
She frowned. “Where did you get that idea from? In reality, no, we are heading north, to New York.”
There. She said it. It was done. She was doomed.
Chapter 19
“Get hold of all the food you can…Cut haversacks from dead men. Steal them from infantrymen if you can. Let your aim be to secure food and food and still more food, and keep yours eyes open for tobacco…Fill your canteen at every stream we cross and wherever you get a chance elsewhere.”
—Advice given to new Union privates during Grant’s maneuvers against Lee, May 3, 1864.
Next day
Francois hobbled awkwardly along the train car. He’d be damned if he’d be stuck lying down any longer. A man had to prove he was in charge of his own being, but his heel claimed otherwise. It’d taken all night, with it elevated and wrapped tightly, for the swelling to decrease and for it to stop burning like a torch. Of course, he’d spent most of the night berating himself for pushing it so hard, but dammit, he was tired of being unable to fend for himself. Plus, his nurse, or doctor, whatever she was, had tired of him. Perhaps claiming she was his wife had been the straw that broke her gentility, but he had no choice. He understood women like Mrs. Turner. A lady living with a man who was not a relation, condemned her to being a whore, regardless of what she claimed.
Another step forward, him leaning on the brass handle of the cane supporting him, he stumbled into the seat with a heavy sigh.
“So how does it feel?”
He glanced across at his keeper. Ada took the seat cattycornered from him. For this journey north, she’d donned different attire than what he normally saw her in. Since he’d known her, she’d worn dark dresses, no crinoline and no adornments, her mane pulled back and tight. But today, she wore a rose calico dress with the wide pagoda sleeves, sheer white under sleeves with her cage crinoline on. While her dark blond hair was pulled back, curled tendrils fought to remain free, framing her face in a golden hue. The straw bonnet, all decorated in rose ribbon and cream flowers screamed lady, as did the drop pearls that adorned her ears. Even her dark grey coat added to her aura. She was beautiful and it took his breath away.
She raised one of her brows at his lack of response. The elegance of that expression took him by surprise. This woman, who fought to help the wounded, often fighting against the wave of men trying to put her ‘back in her place’ like the home front, had a solid, determined look. This one across from him now was virtually a complete opposite in that she not only looked like a lady, her movements refined and sophisticated. It took him a moment to grasp they were the same woman.
“Better. Sore but manageable,” he finally squeaked out.
“Good.” She settled back in her seat, withdrew her fan from her reticule and stared out the window as she started to fan herself.
It was that moment he saw his reflection in the window and it wasn’t good. His hair was long, that he’d realized, but not seeing himself in a looking glass, he didn’t realize just how unruly it had become. A shadow from his whiskers darkened his face. He ran his fingers over his jawbone, feeling the stubble and inwardly snarled. He looked as if she’d woken him up and dragged him here, which, in some respects, was true, but the reality was, he was a patient who had fought infection and pain with no regard for his appearance. That almost made him laugh, because if nothing else, Francois Fontaine had always made
