A Lasting Impression (31 page)

“Will she be all right, Doctor?” Sutton asked, inching closer to the bed.

“She’ll be fine, I assure you.” Dr. Denard slipped his suit jacket back on. “But no more riding for now, Miss Laurent. And with the size of that knot on the back of your head, I want you to stay awake for a while. At least until”—he checked his pocket watch—“around bedtime tonight. That’s a good five or six hours from now. Understood?” He aimed an appraising gaze first at Mrs. Acklen and Sutton, who nodded, and then to Claire.

“Yes, sir.” Claire managed a smile, but for reasons she couldn’t explain, she questioned whether or not he was being honest with her about her injuries. Yet, other than her head hurting and her feeling achy, she felt normal. So why did staying awake seem like such an impossible feat? All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep for days.

Dr. Denard retrieved his medical bag. “Expect to be sore for a while, Miss Laurent. That bruise on your hip will turn several lovely shades of purple and black before it’s healed.” He gave her a quick smile. “But again, you’ll be fine, I assure you.”

Claire nodded, but still felt that niggle of doubt.

The doctor crossed to the bedroom door, then paused, peering over his spectacles at Mrs. Acklen. “If her headache worsens, Mrs. Acklen, or vomiting develops, send for me without delay.”

“We will, doctor.” Mrs. Acklen joined him. “Thank you so much for coming so quickly. I’ll see you out.” She left the door ajar.

Sutton retrieved the desk chair, thunked it down by Claire’s bedside, and straddled it in a decidedly masculine way. “So . . . which will it be? Chess or checkers?”

“Neither, please. I just want to rest.”

He leaned toward her. “It appears you’re going to live after all.”

“It would seem . . .” Claire forced a smile, but all she could think about was that last night in New Orleans when she’d asked the physician about her father’s condition.
“He’ll be fine, I assure you,”
had been his response too. And then her father had died.

She wasn’t afraid of dying in that moment. She’d been thrown from a horse, not stabbed with a knife. It was the
thought
of dying—of this life ending and of coming face-to-face with God—that sent an unrelenting shiver through her. Because she wasn’t ready. She didn’t know why exactly—she only knew she wasn’t. She wanted the peace her mother had somehow found toward the very end.

Only, she preferred to find it before the final hours of her life.

“Not yet, sleepyhead.” Sutton gently squeezed Claire’s shoulder, seeing her eyes drift shut again. “Doctor’s orders. It’s not even eight o’clock.”

With eyes still closed, she frowned. “But I’m so tired, Sutton,” she whispered. “And please, no more checkers. Just let me rest for a minute or two.”

“Sorry, but I can’t do that.” He nudged her shoulder again. Nothing. So he dipped a damp cloth in water and wrung it out, then pressed it against her cheek.

She sucked in a breath, eyes going wide.

“I’m sorry, but you just can’t go to sleep. Not yet.” He smoothed her matted curls. “Does your head still hurt?”

“It’s pounding . . .” She winced. “Like a drum.”

“The doctor said you can have a half dose of laudanum. But only after you’ve eaten a few more bites of Cordina’s soup.”

“Cordina made soup?”

“Yes, she did, to answer that question for a third time.” He smiled and helped her sit up a little straighter in the bed. Dr. Denard had told Adelicia on the way out that Claire’s memory might be sketchy for the first few hours. Sutton wasn’t surprised, not when remembering his father having treated patients with head injuries. And Claire had hit her head pretty hard. “It’s potato soup. Your favorite. At least that’s what you said thirty minutes ago when you ate some.”

Claire gave him a look that said she wasn’t sure whether to believe that or not, but apparently she decided not to argue the point.

Soup bowl in hand, he eased down onto the edge of the bed, ladled a spoonful of soup, and held it to her lips.

“I can feed myself.” She reached for the spoon, but he pulled it back, shaking his head.

“There you go again, Miss Laurent, tryin’ to steal my joy.”

Sighing, she smirked—and opened her mouth. After a couple of bites, she looked up at him, a disconcerting vagueness in her eyes. “Do you ever think about dying, Sutton?”

He stilled. “Claire, honey, you’re going to be fine. I know you probably feel otherwise right now, after that fall, but—”

“No . . . I realize that. What I’m asking is if
you’ve
ever thought about dying.”

“Everyone thinks about dying. At some time or another.”

Accepting another bite of soup, she looked up at him, her expression saying that she wanted—and frankly, expected—more of an answer.

“Yes.” He scooped up a chunk of potato. “I’ve thought about it. Many times. Mostly during the war.”

“You fought,” she said softly, more a statement of fact than a question.

“Along with everyone else.”

“Were you wounded?” She accepted another spoonful.

“I was shot. In the shoulder. I was lucky, though—the bullet went straight through.”

The milky smoothness of her forehead crinkled. “Did it hurt?”

He laughed. “
Yes,
just a little.”

She looked down. “I’m sorry. That was a silly question.”

But thinking about lying in that church sanctuary, with Mark Holbrook’s blood as well as his own drenching his clothes, and with his father only days in the ground, Sutton’s humor fell away. “Men were dying all around me. I thought I was going to die too.” He dipped the spoon in the bowl again, but she shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. He laid the bowl aside.

“Were you scared?” she asked, her voice tentative.

He looked down at her, wondering where all her questions were coming from. But not minding them. “Yes . . . I was scared.”

“Were you . . . ready?”

Sutton felt a tug inside him, like someone had looped a cord around his heart and pulled tight. Had he been ready to die was what she was asking. No one had ever asked him that question before. Not even Cara Netta when they’d spoken once, and ever so briefly, about that night.

He allowed a moment to pass. He had no choice. He couldn’t speak past the thickness in his throat. “Yes,” he whispered. “I was ready. And . . . no.” He fingered the edge of the quilt. “I don’t think there’s a man alive who, once he knows he’s going into battle . . . isn’t forced to face the possibility that he might not come home. And I’d reconciled myself to whatever was going to come. If God chose to call me home . . .” He’d never forget the moment when the reality of that possibility became real—rifle aimed, bullets zipping by, cannon fire exploding all around him. “Then I knew He’d take me home. We all carried letters with us, just in case. I still have mine.”

“Do you still carry it with you?”

The question warmed him, just like she did. She was one beautiful woman, inside and out. Though he tried not to focus on that. “No, I don’t still carry it. Why?” He eyed her with suspicion, hoping to lighten the conversation. “Do you know something I don’t?”

She smiled, but only for a second. “You said yes, you were ready. But then you also said no. Why
no
?”

The woman didn’t give up easily. He liked that. But he was hesitant to answer in too much detail. He wasn’t ashamed of his reasons for wanting to stay around a little longer. They simply weren’t reasons he felt comfortable sharing with just anyone. Of course, Claire wasn’t just anyone. “Because there were things I hadn’t done yet with my life that I wanted to do. That I still want to do.”

She perked up. “Like what?”

He shook his head, remembering Cara Netta’s reaction when he’d shared his dream of raising thoroughbreds.

“I won’t laugh, Sutton. I promise. And I won’t tell anyone, if you say not to.”

And looking at her, he believed her. “I enjoy practicing law and find it rewarding, and honestly, I don’t ever see leaving that completely. But what I’d really like to do one day is . . . own my own thoroughbred farm.”

Her eyes lit.

“But not just own the farm,” he clarified. “I want to train the horses. Myself. For racing. I also want to mend the fences and help birth the foals in the spring. I want to be as involved in every detail as I can.”

The look of delight on her face was like a gift. “That’s a wonderful dream, Sutton. And you’ll do it too.”

How did she do it? Looking into her eyes, he really believed that one day, he
would
have his own farm. When he’d shared his dream with Cara Netta when they were traveling in Europe, she’d reacted with exuberance, and yet her very next question had been about the law firm, and when he might make partner, and wasn’t that a more attractive opportunity to him than owning horses. But he couldn’t completely fault her for that reaction. Not after he’d purposefully mentioned that Bartholomew Holbrook had confided that a future with him being made partner was a possibility.

Yet Cara Netta had never mentioned the thoroughbred farm to him again. And looking back, he knew now that her reaction had contributed to his hesitation in moving forward in their relationship. At least at first. Now there was a whole other reason for his hesitation. She was about five-foot-six, with auburn hair and blue-green eyes, and had a way of looking at him—like she was now—that made him think he could do just about anything.

Except tell her about Cara Netta. Which he had to do.

The LeVerts would be arriving within days. But how could he tell her without making it look as if he’d been hiding the truth from her all this time? Which he hadn’t. It just hadn’t seemed important at first. And then the more they’d gotten to know each other, he simply hadn’t found the right opportunity.

Which meant he had to
make
that opportunity. Right now.

“Thank you, Claire, for that vote of confidence. And I’d ask you what your dream is, but I think I already know.” He glanced at an extra
joujou
sitting on her mantel. “To paint. And to enter the art auction come spring?”

“Yes.” She smoothed a hand over the bedcovers. “If I can paint something that’s good enough.”

“I’m sure you will. You’re very talented. And whatever you decide to paint, I know it will be wonderful.”

She held his gaze, looking as if she wanted to say more, so he waited.

When she didn’t, he figured that was his cue. “Something I’ve—”

“It’s nice to—”

They both laughed, having spoken at the same time.

“I’m sorry.” He gestured. “You go first.”

She dipped her head. “I was just going to say that it’s nice to know you have something you want to do in your life that you haven’t done yet. Even as accomplished as you are.” She looked down for a second, and when she looked up again, her eyes glistened. “And the way you talk about it, the way your face lights up, I can tell it means a great deal to you.”

Sutton studied her. “I could say the same of you when you were looking at the paintings in the gallery. Your love and appreciation for art radiates from you, Claire. And I’m guessing here . . .” He squinted as though evaluating her. “But I’m betting that difference comes through in your painting too. I look forward to seeing your work on something other than a
joujou
and a candy dish.”

For an instant, she looked as if she might cry, then she leaned up and put her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Sutton.”

Surprised at her reaction, but pleased, he slid an arm around her back, gently, not wanting to hurt her where she might have been bruised in the accident.

“May I ask you something?” she whispered, her breath warm on his neck. “For a favor, of sorts?”

More than a little distracted by her closeness and moved by the shyness in her voice, he drew back, not really wanting to. “Ask away, as long as it doesn’t involve breaking any laws. The Tennessee courts—and Mrs. Acklen—might frown on that.”

Her face when blank for an instant, then she gave a breathy laugh. “No, this doesn’t break any laws.”

He smiled, touched by the timid look on her face, and also by their close proximity to each other on the bed. The doctor had checked her heartbeat earlier, and the buttons at her neckline remained loosened, the collar hanging open. He didn’t see anything he shouldn’t, but what he saw inspired thoughts he knew he shouldn’t have. Or, at least, shouldn’t encourage.

The strong, steady beat of her heart was evidenced in the soft, inviting hollow at the base of her throat. And then there were those lips. Lips whose smile could lay him waste with the least little effort, and her eyes that—

Were reading every thought he was having at the moment. Or seemed to be.

Sutton took a breath even as a telling shyness came over her. If she hadn’t known before how attracted he was to her—and he didn’t think she had—the woman had to know now. Or at least suspect it. Should he say something or just let it pass? Never having been good at the latter, he reached for an apology. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

She briefly looked down at her hands, an embarrassed smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I don’t mind the attention . . . coming from you.”

A bolt of lightning coursing through his rain-drenched body would have had less effect on him than her soft admission. Watching her, a steady warmth built inside him, and as the seconds lengthened, he knew he needed to steer the conversation, and his thoughts, toward safer waters. “So . . .” He breathed out, breaking hold of her gaze and hoping his face didn’t look as hot as it felt. “What is this favor you’re wanting to ask me?”

He would’ve sworn he glimpsed a flicker of daring in her expression. Maybe from something she thought of saying and then thought better of it.

“What I was going to ask is . . . as soon as I’m well, and once Dr. Denard says it’s all right for me to ride again, I’m wondering if—”

“I’d teach you to jump,” he guessed, reading the answer in her eyes and already looking forward to that first lesson. “I’d be honored. And by the time I’m through with you, you’ll be scaling every fence and creek east of the Mississippi.”