Kary, Elizabeth (21 page)

Hayes
had come to know Leigh well in the past weeks, to begin to understand and
treasure her. He had seen her with the shine of laughter in her eyes, dried her
tears when something hurt or touched her, felt a wondrous communion of spirit
flow between them. At first he had hoped to find the friendship between them
enough to satisfy whatever alchemy had existed from the first, but tonight he
had discovered that mere friendship was not enough. What he felt for Leigh was
primitive and pure, sexual and strong. He wanted her, yet because he had given
his word and won her trust, he could not act on those deeper emotions. He was
lost, compromised, defeated, and there was no way to change either what he
wanted or what he had denied himself.

Before
he could be tempted to act on the feelings growing within him, Hayes gently
drew away, becoming suddenly conscious of the time they had spent together
alone in this dimly lit room and the possible consequences to her reputation.
"Leigh," he said softly. "Leigh?"

She
smiled up at him through her lashes, and though he wished with all his heart to
read something more in her luminous, spruce-green eyes, they shone with
gratitude alone. "Thank you, Hayes, for everything you did: for cooling
Aaron's amorous advances, for being here when I needed you."

And
thank you for being my friend. Though the sentiment was left unspoken, it
loomed between them, a barrier impossible to scale or destroy. Hayes studied
her face for a long moment, seeing the pale ivory glow of her skin in the
firelight, sensing the faith she had placed in his honor. Then abruptly he
turned away so she would not realize the terrible bleakness that overwhelmed
him.

"You're
welcome, Leigh," he said.

January 10, 1862—St. Louis, Missouri

There
were tears on her cheeks when Leigh stepped out the front entrance of the
hospital, and as soon as she saw Hayes waiting in his usual place beneath the
street lamp, she rushed toward him as if homing to solace and shelter. Heedless
of the people passing on the sidewalk, Hayes put an arm around her, but he was
not prepared for the depth and intensity of the grief he saw in her face.
"What is it, Leigh?" he murmured. "What's the matter?"

"Lucas,"
she whispered, the word muffled against his shoulder. "Oh, Hayes, it's
Lucas."

Banister
didn't wait for more explanations, but flagged down a passing horsecab and
handed Leigh inside, turning to give the driver the Penningtons' address before
he climbed in beside her.

"Oh,
Hayes, no please!" she implored him in a horrified whisper. "I can't
face my parents and Felicity Hale just yet. I don't know how I can break such
news to them. Please, please take me somewhere to get control of myself before
I have to go home and tell them what's happened."

One
look at her ravaged face and brimming eyes convinced Banister of the sincerity
of her plea. "I can take you to the
Barbara Dean,
if that's all
right," he offered.

She
nodded mutely, and Hayes changed his instructions to the driver. Once he was
inside the carriage, Leigh crept across the leather seat to nestle
unselfconsciously beside
him, seeking security and comfort in Hayes's arms. She nuzzled against his
woolly lapel and seemed to welcome the rasp of the rough material against her
skin, seeking in some desperate, primitive way to ease her pain through contact
with his stronger, surer presence.

The
strangled sounds of her weeping filled the interior, and Hayes held her close,
understanding instinctively that she needed this immediate release of tears far
more than any words of consolation he might offer. When her initial grief was
spent, there would be a time for condolences and questions, a time when she
would need a less basic kind of comfort.

When
they reached the levee, Hayes paid the driver and began to lead Leigh across
the cobblestones to where the
Barbara Dean
was berthed for the night. In
the deepening twilight the wind licked along the water's edge, and a sleety
rain had begun to spatter against the stones, making the way slippery and
treacherous. Seeing Leigh's difficulty on the uneven footing, Hayes swept her
up in his arms with an ease that belied her height and weight, and carried her
to his cabin. Once he had set her on her feet beside the bed, he slipped the
buttons of her short paletot from their holes and motioned her to a seat on the
edge of the bunk. Then, removing his own overcoat and jacket and loosening his
necktie, Hayes sat down beside her and began to chafe her icy hands. He could
sense how lost and shaken Leigh was, feel how violently she was trembling. The
dazed expression in her eyes was the same one he had seen in his mother's the
day his father had been killed in an accident at the shipyard, and he knew that
initially physical contact was the most effective kind of consolation. So he
simply held her for a very long time. His voice was a monotonous counterpoint
to the sobs that were wrenched from her throat, his rhythmic stroking in
variance with the uncontrolled shudders that moved through her, his hand a
lifeline wrung again and again in an agony of grief. For a time it seemed that
Leigh would never stop her weeping, but eventually she quieted, leaning
trembling and spent against his shoulder. He held her for a few minutes more,
then disentangling himself from her grip, went to add more wood to the stove in
the corner of the cabin and pour a glass of brandy from a bottle in the
cupboard beside the desk.

"Drink
this," he urged, bending over her. "It will help, at least a
little."

Leigh
took the glass, put it to her lips, and took a sip of the liquor, hissing deep
in her throat as she swallowed. Hayes pressed another longer draught upon her
and another, until all the brandy had been drunk. Within a few minutes he could
see that the alcohol had begun to have its desired effect, and Leigh seemed
somewhat calmer.

"Can
you tell me what's happened?" he asked, as he knelt beside her, taking her
hands in his again.

Leigh
drew a wavering breath, but for the first time since she had left the hospital,
her eyes were dry. "I was making my final rounds before I left and stopped
by to check on a new patient sent over from the Confederate prison down Fifth
Street where Lynch's slave pen used to be. We get men from there when they need
more nursing than the other prisoners can give them or when an amputation is
necessary. The Confederate seemed to recognize my name, and he asked me if I
was acquainted with a Lucas Hale, who'd signed up with Sterling Price in the
first days of the war."

"Was
he from Lucas's unit?"

Leigh
nodded. "All this time I haven't had a clue to where Lucas and Bran ended
up. They left suddenly, right after the capture of Camp Jackson, and I haven't
heard a word from either of them since.

"I
asked the prisoner for word of Lucas: how he was, if he was at least getting
enough to eat. A strange look came over the man's face then, and though he
tried to put me off, I pressed him. 'I'm plumb sorry to tell you this, Missy,'
he said, 'but Lucas Hale was killed in the battle at Wilson Creek, killed in
the same charge as Nathaniel Lyon. And a fair trade that was, I reckon, a brave
Confederate boy for that miserable Yankee general.' " Leigh paused and
took another uneven breath. "I asked him if he was sure about what had
happened, and he said—he said he had helped Bran and Plato, their servant, bury
Lu-Lucas—"

Leigh's
tears came again, only this time they were angry
tears, harsh with
disillusionment and despair. "Oh, Hayes, all these months and I didn't
know; I didn't even know he was dead."

In
the dim light the wetness sparkled on her lashes and traced shimmering pathways
down her cheeks. Hayes pulled her fiercely against him, his face contorted with
sympathy. "I'm sorry, Leigh," he whispered. "Oh, God, I'm so
sorry."

"The
man—the man said Lucas was at the front of the second charge up Bloody Ridge,
right at the front, full of bravado, shouting at the top of his voice. That's
so like Lucas, always taking chances. Always. I tried to warn Bran the morning
they left. I told him that Lucas would have more courage than sense when it
came to soldiering, more courage than sense, just like he did when we were
children. Still, I knew the warning was futile. Lucas never listened to anyone,
much less Bran or me. Lucas was— Lucas was..." Her voice trailed off,
muffled against Hayes's shirtfront.

Banister
moved from his knees to the bed beside her, shifting to brace his shoulders
against the headboard and pulling her with him until they half sat, half
sprawled across the velvet coverlet. There was comfort in their physical
closeness, a rightness in the way their long-limbed bodies flowed together.
Leigh lay along his chest, her face hidden against his shoulder, and as she
wept, he could feel the wetness of her tears on his skin, feel the brush of her
lips against his throat as she whispered a name that was not his own. Hayes's
heart ached for her as he pulled her close, knowing the depth of what she'd
lost. Lucas had been her lifelong friend as well as her fiancé. He had been the
larger part of the future she was planning, her promise of the security that
seemed so essential to her well-being. Now Lucas was gone, his life carelessly
spent on a battlefield miles and months away. And with his passing went all
Leigh's hopes and dreams for the future.

Hayes
shifted on the bed and hugged Leigh tighter. He was sorry for her, sorrier than
he could say. Leigh deserved happiness, not despair, companionship, not
loneliness. She should have any man who could make her happy; she should have
Lucas Hale if she wanted him!

But
now that Lucas was gone, some insidious voice inside Hayes whispered, now that
Lucas was dead, there was nothing to stand between Leigh and him, if he should
decide he wanted her. The thought circled through Banister's brain as he
considered the possibilities before him, and then he realized what he was
doing. He was making carnal plans for a woman who had trusted him and sought
comfort in his arms. He was plotting to take advantage of a person who saw him
as nothing more than a friend. His own insensitivity appalled Hayes, and he
scowled in self-disgust. To consider such a thing when words of sympathy were
fresh on his lips branded him as a hypocrite and opportunist, but the thought
would not be denied. He cared for Leigh, Hayes admitted in resignation, cared
for her in a very different way than he had ever cared for any other woman. He
valued her thoughts and opinions, enjoyed her intelligence and humor, found her
body enticing and delightful. And beyond that was the thing he'd sensed from
the first moment he saw her, the thing he'd confirmed in the weeks since she'd
returned from Cairo: Leigh was a part of him, someone who complemented him and
made him whole. Lucas Hale's death had forced him to realize the scope of his
feelings for the woman by his side, but that realization was tempered with
guilt and confusion.

"Damn,
damn," he whispered angrily, not even realizing he spoke the words aloud.

Leigh
raised her head in surprise and dashed away her tears with one hand.
"Hayes? What's the matter?" she whispered back, wanting, even in her
grief, to offer him what comfort she could.

The
emotions in his eyes were impossible to fathom, but Leigh thought she
understood the brooding expression that narrowed the comers of his mouth.
"Oh, Hayes, please don't grieve with me," she pleaded. "I need
your strength and friendship so much right now."

As
she spoke, Leigh pressed one work-roughened hand to his cheek, and when she
felt him move against her palm, she brushed her mouth across his lips. It was
only the slightest of kisses, but she discovered a profound consolation in the
simple intimacy. A flicker of warmth flared within her chest, a spark of
feeling to fill the aching void Lucas's death had left inside her. She
retreated in wonder as her fingers molded to the shape of his jaw, then she
slanted her lips across his again, seeking greater warmth and solace. Their
deepening kisses fanned the ember inside until a satisfying glow moved through
her blood. Hayes's nearness and the tenderness he offered her were an anodyne
for the terrible pain of her loss and a temporary diversion from the
responsibility of breaking the news of Lucas's death to the others who would
grieve as deeply as she. In a few minutes she would go, Leigh promised herself,
in a few minutes she would confront her parents and Felicity Hale, but for now
she needed the comfort only Hayes Banister seemed capable of giving.

Outside,
the sleet slashed at the windows as the darkness deepened, and the
Barbara
Dean
moved sluggishly against the current, buffeted by the fierce wind
whipping down from the north. But inside Hayes's cabin the fire crackled and
the lamps glowed, banishing the cold and the darkness, creating a haven of
warmth and security. Tumbled across the bed, the man and woman lay together,
giving and receiving the most basic kind of consolation, savoring the salt
taste of tears and the sweetness of brandy as their mouths melded together. For
Leigh the growing intensity of their kisses kept reality at bay, but Hayes was
all too aware of the time passing, too aware of the effect holding and kissing
Leigh was having on him, too aware that these intimacies stretched the
boundaries of friendship to breaking.