Read Online A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series by S. Dionne Moore - Free Book Online
Authors: S. Dionne Moore
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the other men. Another wagon full of men came in. Almost full up there now.”
She peered around until she saw Jim’s large form, the cot stuck beneath his arm. “Yes, that would be wonderful.”
When Jim was eye level with her, his dark face offered a wan smile. “Got Mr. Nisewander to agree to get out. He’s coming here, gonna bunk in the cellar while I help.”
“They’re hitting close.”
“That was what got the Mister convinced.”
“The caves would be safer, even up north with his brother.”
“He still ain’t wanting to leave town, but I got him to see that your grandmama needed the help. He’s said as long as he could see his house he’d be content.” He lowered his voice. “Done had me go hide his money in the stone wall.”
Beth glanced over her shoulder. Joe still watched them from the floor. “Can you get Joe settled?”
“Done got another cot to bring down, then the Mister. Me and Emma will set things straight while you fetch what you gotta.”
Joe could hear no more than the deep rumblings of the black man and Beth’s murmured responses. He could see the woman quickly glance in his direction. Saw her say something more, then turn to leave. His spirits sagged. He didn’t want to be alone. Loneliness nipped at him, hollow and cold. Ben should be here, but, no, Ben was gone. Shot. He squeezed his eyes shut to try and remember the dream, or was it a vision? Every fiber of his being stretched to bring into focus the wayward images that danced along the periphery of his mind but never quite came into focus. He was hot, perhaps the images were nothing more than the result of his fever, of the wound in his shoulder.
And then there was his arm . . . tingly, numb. He couldn’t feel it, but it hurt to move it. Even bunching his muscles sent out pulses of pain. A surgeon would amputate it. He’d seen it done hundreds of times, had heard the agonized screams of the men when medical supplies were low and chloroform in short supply. Arms, legs, hands, feet, it mattered not the part or pain, and all for the sake of saving the soldier’s life. Joe shuddered and turned his face to the side. He tried again to make a fist and though his fingers curled some, he couldn’t get them to tighten into a fist. It was all the Yankees’ fault. The war. The blackness of war coated his soul.
What good would he be back home? His arm would render him useless. He would be alone and lonely. Sue, she would be there, wouldn’t she? It was so hard to think, to remember . . .
The black man cast a shadow over him, and Joe turned with a gasp.
“It’s time. I’ll lift you to the mattress.”
“I can walk.”
The black man moved aside as Joe did his best to scoot into a sitting position, cursing the weakness and the heat that seemed to suck strength from him. He sat for a few seconds tosteady his world, then swung his legs around. A groan slipped from his lips and the blood drained from his head. His shoulder began a steady thrum of pain. His legs burned. He felt himself slipping away, when strong arms lifted him and the icy chill of the cellar cut through the warmth generated by the cocoon of blanket left behind.
Cradled in the black man’s arms, Joe could do nothing more than grit his teeth at the pain of his injured shoulder grinding against the man’s chest. Once he was lying down again, the man stood over him.
“You the one who helped my people.”
Joe heard the man’s words through the haze. But the statement didn’t make sense. Nothing did, and he knew, as hard as he tried to fight against it, that he was slipping away again. Weakness was winning, and fresh fear that he wouldn’t wake up again clutched at him.
9
He’s weak,” Jim said, as he settled a chair next to Joe’s cot.
“The fever is taking him.” Beth withdrew her hand, disappointed to find Joe hotter than he was an hour previous.
She felt Jim’s presence at her back. “Weak as a newborn chick.”
“He needs to
She peered around until she saw Jim’s large form, the cot stuck beneath his arm. “Yes, that would be wonderful.”
When Jim was eye level with her, his dark face offered a wan smile. “Got Mr. Nisewander to agree to get out. He’s coming here, gonna bunk in the cellar while I help.”
“They’re hitting close.”
“That was what got the Mister convinced.”
“The caves would be safer, even up north with his brother.”
“He still ain’t wanting to leave town, but I got him to see that your grandmama needed the help. He’s said as long as he could see his house he’d be content.” He lowered his voice. “Done had me go hide his money in the stone wall.”
Beth glanced over her shoulder. Joe still watched them from the floor. “Can you get Joe settled?”
“Done got another cot to bring down, then the Mister. Me and Emma will set things straight while you fetch what you gotta.”
Joe could hear no more than the deep rumblings of the black man and Beth’s murmured responses. He could see the woman quickly glance in his direction. Saw her say something more, then turn to leave. His spirits sagged. He didn’t want to be alone. Loneliness nipped at him, hollow and cold. Ben should be here, but, no, Ben was gone. Shot. He squeezed his eyes shut to try and remember the dream, or was it a vision? Every fiber of his being stretched to bring into focus the wayward images that danced along the periphery of his mind but never quite came into focus. He was hot, perhaps the images were nothing more than the result of his fever, of the wound in his shoulder.
And then there was his arm . . . tingly, numb. He couldn’t feel it, but it hurt to move it. Even bunching his muscles sent out pulses of pain. A surgeon would amputate it. He’d seen it done hundreds of times, had heard the agonized screams of the men when medical supplies were low and chloroform in short supply. Arms, legs, hands, feet, it mattered not the part or pain, and all for the sake of saving the soldier’s life. Joe shuddered and turned his face to the side. He tried again to make a fist and though his fingers curled some, he couldn’t get them to tighten into a fist. It was all the Yankees’ fault. The war. The blackness of war coated his soul.
What good would he be back home? His arm would render him useless. He would be alone and lonely. Sue, she would be there, wouldn’t she? It was so hard to think, to remember . . .
The black man cast a shadow over him, and Joe turned with a gasp.
“It’s time. I’ll lift you to the mattress.”
“I can walk.”
The black man moved aside as Joe did his best to scoot into a sitting position, cursing the weakness and the heat that seemed to suck strength from him. He sat for a few seconds tosteady his world, then swung his legs around. A groan slipped from his lips and the blood drained from his head. His shoulder began a steady thrum of pain. His legs burned. He felt himself slipping away, when strong arms lifted him and the icy chill of the cellar cut through the warmth generated by the cocoon of blanket left behind.
Cradled in the black man’s arms, Joe could do nothing more than grit his teeth at the pain of his injured shoulder grinding against the man’s chest. Once he was lying down again, the man stood over him.
“You the one who helped my people.”
Joe heard the man’s words through the haze. But the statement didn’t make sense. Nothing did, and he knew, as hard as he tried to fight against it, that he was slipping away again. Weakness was winning, and fresh fear that he wouldn’t wake up again clutched at him.
9
He’s weak,” Jim said, as he settled a chair next to Joe’s cot.
“The fever is taking him.” Beth withdrew her hand, disappointed to find Joe hotter than he was an hour previous.
She felt Jim’s presence at her back. “Weak as a newborn chick.”
“He needs to
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