“Awhile, I reckon. How long you ’spect he’s gonna live?”
“At this rate, only a few hours.” The surgeon’s baffled look pinched his brow. Braham had seen similar expressions on other officers weighing difficult decisions. What concerned this surgeon that hadn’t concerned the others? It didn’t matter. Not really. His pain would end in a matter of hours—one way or another.
Flickering candles threw enough light for Braham to look into the doctor’s almond-shaped, blue eyes, now studying him with penetrating scrutiny. He tugged on the man’s sleeve. “Water.”
The surgeon turned toward the nurse. “Bring me clean bandages.”
“My orders are to leave him be.”
“I’m not going to watch a man die without trying to make his last moments comfortable. Now go.”
The nurse gave the doctor a brusque nod, then spun on his heel. His boots scuffed along the floor, growing fainter with each hurried step.
The surgeon sat on the edge of a spindle-back chair and scooted it closer, scraping wobbly legs against the floor. Dust fountained off him, as if he’d ridden for a month without care for himself or his mount. He took Braham’s bruised hand between both of his.
A velvety whisper sounded in his ear. “I’ve been sent to rescue you, Major. I’m getting you out of here.”
Was he already dead? Was the Angel of Mercy upon him? Forcing words through his cotton mouth he asked, “Am I dead?”
“No, and you won’t die today if I can help it.”
“My legs won’t carry me very far.” Braham’s shallow breathing grew quiet for a moment, and he remained motionless, save for a twitch of a small muscle beneath his right eye.
The surgeon let go of his hand and leaned closer. “Hold on. We’re going for a ride.”
Braham didn’t know how it was possible, but he believed the surgeon would rescue him, and his spirit ignited with hope. Maybe Fate wasn’t leading him to a slow death or a noose around his neck, but to a life filled with love, and a soul healed in the fertile soil of his vineyards.
The surgeon opened a sapphire brooch, held Braham’s hand again, and stumbled through barely recognizable Gaelic. “Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an gaol ach’s ann le neart anama.”
Braham sniffed, turning his head to pull air deep into his lungs. The autumn scent of burnished gold leaves and fermenting grapes lingered gently on night’s breath. Where the scent came from he didn’t know, but as fog engulfed him, he closed his eyes and translated the Gaelic in his mind—Love is not measured by time or space. Love is measured by the power of the soul. Then he took in another deep breath and exhaled, long and slow.
2
Battle of Cedar Creek, Virginia, Present Day
Charlotte Lynn Mallory’s bootheels clicking against the hardwood floor echoed through the quiet house as she swaggered out of the kitchen, down the long hall, and into the mansion’s foyer, carrying a travel cup of black coffee. When she caught sight of her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror hanging over the acorn-patterned mantel, gooseflesh rippled on her forearms. She stopped and cocked her head left, then right, and then left again, but nothing changed. The image reflecting back in the polished glass was still not her own, but that of her six-times-great-grandfather, Major Carlton Jackson Mallory.
“Good morning, sir,” she said in her deepest voice. “Looking good today.”
She glanced over her shoulder, saluting sharply to his portrait, which hung at the bottom of the square-ridge staircase that rose three floors. Her leg muscles still burned from her half dozen trips to the top floor to gather her reenacting equipment.
The portrait artist had painted her grandsire in full Confederate uniform. His left hand, which bore the family acorn signet ring, was prominently displayed on the hilt of his saber, and his other hand rested affectionately on his wife’s shoulder. Not only did Charlotte’s uniform match his down to the Virginia seal buttons, but so did her Lincoln-style beard and brown wig.
She squinted into the mirror, grimacing at a stray blond curl peeking out from beneath her shoulder-length wig. Well, that won’t do at all. She tucked in the errant strands then scrutinized her face and head. Was there anything else amiss? Earrings? Nope. Lipstick? Ha. That’s funny. At the rate she used the Bobbi Brown pinky-brown lip color in her purse, the tube would last another five years.
Charlotte set the coffee cup on the mantel and patted her hands down the front and sides of her dark blue trousers, checking for loose threads. Her tailor had reinforced the stitches where the black velvet side stripes and gold cords attached to the pants. He had also added extra padding to the cadet gray officer’s tunic to give her a bulkier shape. She had dropped a few pounds while training for last month’s marathon in Charlottesville, so the tailor padded the jacket instead of taking in seams he might have to let out later.
Over the past fifteen years, with the help of her tailor, makeup artists, and drama instructors, she had created a character so authentic that other reenactors failed to see the woman camouflaged under layers of wool, Ace bandages binding her breasts, and theatrical makeup. When she was in costume she rarely broke character. Even under the heat of a summer sun—“hotter than a witch’s tit in a brass bra,” as her Grandmother Mallory used to say—the beard, wig, and makeup remained in place.
Satisfied there was nothing inauthentic about her uniform to cause another reenactor to accuse her of being a farb, she donned her medical service cap with the letters MS embroidered in silver, folded her gauntlets over her belt, and practiced her best Ashley Wilkes smile. Actually, she’d much rather play a character like the scalawag Rhett Butler, but it wasn’t the personality of her six-times-great-grandfather. Was it hers? Nope. She was safe and boring. She didn’t even own a cat.
After grabbing the coffee cup and car keys off the table,
