Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia (27 page)

“It’s not serious,” Andrea thought she heard
Hunter say. But his voice sounded weak, and his shirt was covered in blood, and
he was only standing now with the aid of two of his men.

“I’s can’t stands blood,” Izzie screamed,
putting her hand over her eyes.

Her animosity toward the injured man for a
moment forgotten, Andrea made it to the stairs in just a few strides on her
crutches. “Bring him up here,” she yelled when the men entered the door below.

“Izzie,” she commanded, seeing she would have to
take charge. “Tell Mattie to boil some water and bring up clean linens. And
you, get some whiskey.”

Opening the door to Hunter’s chamber, Andrea
paused at the threshold, looking for the first time upon the large, sun-swept—and
masculine—room. Her sense of intrusion lasted only a moment. Heavy footsteps
sounded on the stairs and the figures of three men appeared in the doorway.
Their faces and clothes, masked with smoke and mud, made them
unrecognizable—more like some frightening creatures from the depths of a swamp
than anything of flesh and blood.

After they laid Hunter down on the bed and
removed his boots, Andrea noticed he did not move. “He’s lost a lot of blood,”
one young man said, his brow creased with concern. “Doc’s in Richmond.”

“We’ll do what we can for him.” Andrea ripped
away what remained of his tattered shirt, the condition of which showed he had
passed through a dreadful battle or bad weather, or both. The seeping condition
of the bandage placed on his shoulder in the field gave proof that he had been
bleeding copiously for quite some time.

“That will be all,” she said, looking up at the
men gathered solemnly around the bed. She pretended not to notice their looks
of surprise or their nods and winks as they exited the room. When she heard the
door close, Andrea paused and swallowed hard at the appearance and physique of
the man lying before her. Covered in mud, his face blackened from powder, he
still radiated exceptional power and strength.

By the time Mattie arrived with the water and
linens, Andrea had discovered that a clipping from his coat and shirt remained
within a ragged hole near his shoulder. The lead had torn a rather large hole
upon its exit, but the bullet did not appear to have hit any bones.

“I’m just going to clean this up a little.”
Andrea did not know if he was conscious. He had not moved.

“Keep the hot water coming,” she said over her
shoulder to Mattie. “He’s a mess.”

Wiping the sweat from his brow with a cloth,
Andrea frowned at the situation.
I never could turn away from an injured
animal,
she thought to herself.

* * *

Hunter heard a voice and felt fingers probing
his shoulder. Although his arm throbbed with pain, the touch felt tender and
soothing upon his bare flesh. He tried to force the cobwebs from his brain, to
clear his blurred vision and mind.

Opening his eyes and blinking at the pain, he
stared at the face leaning over him.  He thought he recognized the
countenance—but no, that could not be. He saw no sign of the hatred and anger
that blazed so fervently when last they’d quarreled, nor any sign of the
customary sullen frown.

He closed his eyes and tried to think.
Tired.
So tired
.

After being hit, he had fallen. Perhaps he had
hit his head and was hallucinating now. Or perhaps he was just so exhausted he
was having a strange dream. Strange indeed, because the woman he had left in
the next room would be more inclined to strangle him than bend over him in aid.

Hunter blinked at the intensity of light
flooding through the window while gazing upon the worried face. Though fairly
certain he was dreaming, he decided to talk to the apparition. “What do you
think, Doc?” He hoped he had actually spoken the words aloud, because it was
only with supreme effort that he retained consciousness.

The figure did not respond right away, seeming
intent on cleaning the wound. Or maybe, Hunter thought, she really is just a
figment of my exhausted imagination.

“It appears a bullet has pierced your celestial
armor, Major,” she answered at last. “Unfortunately, it does not appear to be
fatal.”

She did not lift her eyes at first, but when she
did bring them up to meet his, they brimmed with amusement. Hunter thought he
had never seen anything so beautiful, so exquisite, as those two dazzling green
eyes filled with laughter. He contrasted the image to the raving, maddened
woman he left, but could find no comparison. Where did this person come from or
where had the other gone? He hoped they had switched places for good.

“I’m not the first to baptize the soil of the
Old Dominion with my patriotic blood,” Hunter said weakly. His words made her
frown, and her eyes reflected a look so somber and wise it made his bones ache.

“Nor will you be the last, I fear.” She bent
back over to examine his wound. Her breath was now so near, Hunter could feel
it on his skin; her hair so close, he could smell its sweet fragrance. Her
touch was divine. He felt strangely out of breath.

Hunter raised his gaze to her, but she seemed
not to notice. Lost in silent observation, she bit the inside of her cheek as
she concentrated on her work. When a tendril of hair fell and brushed his neck,
a shock surged through his body that made him shudder.

“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” She looked up
anxiously, her eyes filled with unconcealed alarm.

“No. Go on.” Hunter transferred his gaze to the
ceiling and bit the inside of his cheek as well, forcing himself to concentrate
on something else. Although worn with fatigue, he could no longer think of
sleep.

“I appreciate the confidence, Major. I am an honorable
woman, and despite the fact you are my enemy, your treatment will be just.” She
sounded innocent enough as she repeated the exact words he had said to her, but
Hunter saw a smile twitch along the corners of her mouth. Then, like a mass of
storm clouds parting to expose the rays of the sun, she revealed a smile.

Hunter was thankful he was lying down. A face
that had heretofore only frowned, glared, and grimaced at him now glowed with a
teasing grin. He gazed upon lips that were not merely turned upward but that
lit her countenance with a lovely sparkle of enchantment. He thought the smile
the sweetest that had ever illuminated a mortal face. The throbbing in his
shoulder mysteriously disappeared.

“Then I shall attempt to put on as brave a front
as my houseguest and endure the fate that has befallen me.” Feeling slightly
out of control, Hunter took a shaky breath and wondered if she had dosed him
with laudanum when he was unaware. She suddenly possessed some power that made
him feel light-headed and dizzy. He glanced again into her eyes and felt a dull
ache in his chest begin to spread throughout his body. He forced himself to
look at the ceiling again and concentrated on breathing. Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.

He tried not to think about the soft hands
gently probing his arm, tried not to think about how they would feel— His
breath became ragged. His nerves throbbed and jumped involuntarily.

“I’m sorry. I know I’m hurting you. I’m almost
done.”

Her voice jolted him back. He attempted to
ignore the roaring in his ears and the wound that had started to ache in the
back of his teeth. “Tell me, Miss Evans,” he said, trying to regain the
self-control he prided himself on. “Are you trying to get on my good side?”

Andrea gave him a puzzled look. “That is quite
impossible, Major, as I was not even aware you possessed one. But I thank you
for letting me in on your well-kept secret.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling
mischievously, and then went back to work, her jaw set firmly as she attacked
her task with renewed fervor.

Hunter smiled too, a cockeyed schoolboy grin,
which he quickly suppressed. “Perhaps it’s like yours, merely hidden most of
the time,” he said huskily.

“Perhaps,” she responded. But Hunter could tell
she was more engrossed in her grim work than the conversation. Maybe she was
letting him know she had no intention of discussing
her
good side, which
she evidently preferred to keep to herself.

Andrea sat back and surveyed her work, then her
gaze drifted up to meet his. “You have a funny look on your face, Major.”

“I do?” He choked the words.

“Probably just the pain from your injury.” She
smiled, and, in a motherly way, put her hand on his forehead to see if he had a
fever. Stroking the hair from his brow, she looked with a mixture of sympathy
and concern at the spot where his head had made violent contact with the
ground.

Something about that look reached down to his
soul and made him struggle to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, lest she
read any secrets there.

 “Bullets
have a way of humbling one, I suppose,” she said as if to herself.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been humbled.”
Hunter meant to say it was not the first time he’d taken a bullet, but he was
so tired and confused, he could not think straight. So tired. Yet his heart
banged against his rib cage like it wanted out.

Andrea did not respond to that. She lifted his
arm and began wrapping his wound with the bandages.

Hunter forced his eyes open again. “You seem
experienced in the art of healing, Miss Evans,” he said weakly. “Have you done this
before?”

“Oh, yes. I used to help Mammy with the sla—”

She looked straight into his eyes, her brows
drawn together, her face just inches from his. Apparently realizing it was too
late to stop, she finished matter-of-factly, “… with the slaves.” Turning back
to the basin, she busied herself wringing out the washcloth.

“But,” Hunter said, genuinely confused, “I never
assumed you were Southern by birth.”

“It should not be hard to believe that I was
born and lived among the misguided,” Andrea snapped. “When one is reared in the
presence of some six hundred slaves, a proclivity against, and an intolerance
for, the institution and those who condone it can hardly be considered
unjustifiable.”

She turned back to the bowl of water, but the
tone, the words, the savagery, were more like that to which he was accustomed.
Even her eyes had taken on that all-too-familiar look that meant the mule was
back.

 “I didn’t mean . . .” Hunter stuttered.
Please
don’t go
, he thought.

“My heritage is Southern. My devotion is, and
shall always be, Union.”

Thus ended the conversation. And thus ended the
appearance of the gentler side of his houseguest. Hunter closed his eyes again.
Six hundred slaves? She must have been born into one of the wealthiest families
in the South, entitled to all the luxuries and comforts that such breeding
grants. She had never boasted of wealth or influence, yet apparently possessed
both. What in the hell was she doing
here
?

“Cans I help, Miz Andrea?” Mattie came back into
the room with another bowl of water.

“No, I’ve just got to clean up the rest of him.”

Andrea leaned toward him with the wet cloth, but
Hunter grabbed her wrist before she had a chance to touch him. “Mattie, can do
it,” he said, not wanting to risk his reaction to her hands. “You’ve done
enough.”

Andrea looked surprised, but shrugged her
shoulders and dried her hands.

“Get some rest when Mattie’s done,” she ordered
before leaving the room on her crutches. She need not have given the command.
His exhausted condition had already brought merciful oblivion.

* * *

Hunter heard a light knock on the door the next
morning, just before Andrea blew into the room like a fast-moving tornado. He
watched in amazement as she flew across the room in long—albeit
ungraceful—strides on her crutches.

“What do you think you are doing?” She grabbed
the boot he had been trying to put on with one hand.

“I need to get back to my men.”

“You’ll provide no more target practice until a
doctor looks at your arm.” She dropped the boot on the floor. “I’ve already
sent Gus with a message informing Captain Carter you’re in bed for repairs.”

Hunter looked at her, trying to figure out how
she knew the names of his men, then fully realized what she had just said. “You
can’t send messages through my men
about me
without my knowledge or
consent!”

“I can’t? Or I shouldn’t?” Andrea asked
innocently. “Because I did, and it is done.”

She waved her hand in the air and laughed as if
her philosophy of seeking forgiveness rather than permission was a sound one.
“Come now, Major, you are no more fit to face the enemy than you are to fly to
the moon. Gus was waiting for a message to convey, and Captain Carter is
perfectly capable of overseeing things for a few days. What would you have done
differently?”

“That is not the point,” Hunter growled, before
mumbling something uncomplimentary under his breath. He reached down to pick up
his boot.

Andrea slid the tip of her crutch forward and
pinned the leather shaft firmly to the floor. Hunter looked up at her and then
over to the chest where his guns lay, as if they would somehow be of use.

“Did you sleep well?” Andrea’s voice softened
just the slightest bit.

“Yes,” Hunter lied. Between the pain and the
dreams of her, he doubted he had slept at all. He had even been awake the times
she had slipped into his room to check on him. Or had he dreamed that she had
knelt over him, beautiful and smiling throughout the night, touching his brow
to check for signs of fever? And was he dreaming still? Had something vague and
enthralling absorbed into him so that even now it pulsed through his veins?

“Well, you don’t look like it to me.” Andrea
cocked her head and scrutinized him. “How do you
feel
?”

“Like a piece of Yankee lead ripped through my
shoulder.” Hunter stared intently at his boot as he spoke, as if by doing so it
would dislodge itself from beneath her crutch.