Linda Castle (22 page)

She swallowed hard. “What?”

“I need you to help me fill in the missing parts of my memory.” The sorrow in his eyes was unchecked, unveiled.

“I’ll help you to regain your memory.” The words spilled out. “Whatever you think might help, I’ll be there to help you try it.” The war raged inside her. She didn’t want him to regain his memory completely, but she couldn’t stand seeing him struggle in vain. She loved him more than she feared losing him. “I hope you don’t expect too much. It might not work….”

He tenderly cupped her face within his big rough hands. Eyes softer than a gray winter cloud roamed over her face.

“With you by my side, I can do anything.” He gently laid his wide palm on her stomach. “Thank you for loving me, even though I’m only half the man you married.”

He bent his head and nuzzled her throat. Linese blinked back the tears. He believed she loved him
in spite of his
lost past, when in her heart she knew she loved him
because of it.

He wasn’t half the man she married—he was twice the man he was two years ago—but she could not tell him that.

“Were all my letters home to you like this one?” Chase frowned at Linese over the top edge of the dog-eared paper. Her expression sent his pulse thrumming through his veins and made his belly clinch tight.

For the past week Chase had the unshakable feeling there was something hanging right there at the tip of her tongue that Linese wanted to say, or perhaps did
not
want to say.
He wasn’t certain he possessed the courage to ask or the strength to hear the answer.

“Most of your letters were accounts of what had happened during the battles and such.”

He heard her words over the ringing in his ears that had refused to go away. He willed himself to ignore it while he focused on her sweet face, even though he knew it heralded a memory.

“Didn’t I ever tell you how much I missed you?” Chase asked in a husky whisper. A faint voice in Chase’s head warned him he would not like her answer, but he pressed forward.

A melancholy smile curved Linese’s lovely mouth. Sadness reached out to him from behind the implacable depths of her blue eyes. “You were never a man to wear your heart on your sleeve, Chase. It wouldn’t have been like you to say such personal things in your letters.”

Her diplomatic words brought an unexpected flash of anger at himself. He frowned and folded the paper away in irritation. Chase picked up another page and began to read it. Linese’s words layered more questions on top of the old ones.

How could he have left her so soon after their wedding? How could he have not told her how very much he missed her? How could he have sent exact accounts of each victory and not declared his undying love on each page?

The more he learned about his past self, the more he resolved to be a better man. Could it be the man he had been, the man he was trying so desperately to resurrect, had not loved Linese when he married her? Was there even a ghost of a chance remembering could erase the feeling he had for her now?

No. He refused even to consider the notion. Nothing, not even death itself, could quell the feeling he had for her.

Linese lay in the bed and longed to penetrate the barrier of Chase’s mind. He had been so silent, so pensive, while he read the old letters. Was he remembering some forgotten
moment right now? Were the words he had written on the battlefield pulling him into the past, away from her while she watched helplessly?

Linese wanted to feel his warmth and strength, but the more she saw his face transform into a dark portrait of concentration, the more she was afraid to reach out to him.

The last dry leaves of autumn swirled past the window on a capricious breeze. The crackling fireplace sent a pleasant glow throughout the dining room, but Linese couldn’t shake off the chill of worry. Would spring see her and Chase happy parents, or would she find herself mourning the loss of the person who had returned to her from war?

“Well, Doc, how are we?” Linese watched the old physician’s expert hands roam over the growing swell of her belly.

“So far, so good.” He pulled the sheet and quilt up to Linese’s chin and patted her shoulder as if to reassure her. “Don’t look so worried. Every week that passes, that little mite is gaining strength. He certainly is growing at a good clip.”

She sighed and felt some of the tension leave her body. Linese took some comfort from Doc’s words. Each day she watched her body expand and grow. The baby kicked and she flinched unconsciously, not from pain but from surprise. As if by magic, Chase was beside the bed.

“Do you hurt? Do you need anything?” He touched her face with his palm and she felt love spill over her like a warm waterfall.

“The baby kicked.” Linese said softly.

Doc grinned and turned to busy himself with putting his battered black medical bag in order for the long buggy ride back to Mainfield. No matter how many times he saw this scene played out, it still gave him a thrill. He glanced back to see Chase’s usually grim face transformed into a bright canvas of wonder. He timidly placed his wide hand on Linese’s stomach and waited like the expectant father he was.
Suddenly his eyes widened and his eyebrows shot upward. Doc knew Chase had felt his child kick for the first time.

“She’s going to be a scrapper,” Linese said with a grin.

“Or he,” Chase corrected firmly.

Doc frowned. Chase seemed almost obsessed that the child not be a girl. He had seen fathers who wanted sons badly, but this was something different. He would swear Chase Cordell was afraid. It was as if he feared something terrible would happen if the baby were a girl.

“I’ll walk you to the door, Doc.” Chase deposited a kiss on Linese’s forehead before he stood up and stepped into the hallway.

When they were alone outside the dining room door, Chase paused. “How is she, really, and don’t sugarcoat the truth.” His voice was a tense whisper.

The old physician dragged his hand over his face and sighed. “I just don’t know, Chase. Her ankles and face are swollen more each time I see her. She insists she is not having pain, but I don’t believe it. The baby is large for her time. I just don’t know.” Fatigue and worry showed in every crease and deep line in the physician’s face.

“She has to be all right. I can’t let anything happen to her or the baby,” Chase whispered intensely. “I won’t.”

Linese watched the first snowflakes swirl by her window. The Jones girl bustled through the house, tending to the chores she longed to be doing. While she lay in bed and watched her body change, the world continued to spin and time marched by the dining room window.

News of the war drifted past her doorway on whispered lips and tiptoeing feet. The sun rose and set and the only time she left her bed was to use the chamber pot and to indulge in the occasional—and too infrequent—sponge bath.

She knew Chase had ordered everyone to wear a smile in her presence and only speak to her of good things. It both gladdened and infuriated her. She felt like a potted plant-too delicate and fragile to live outside in the cold, short days
of winter. Linese had been wrapped in a loving cocoon that kept her secure from the outside world. Chase seemed intent on keeping her safe, even if he had to use his body as a physical shield in order to do it.

In February, Linese heard Effie whispering to Doc Lu-kins about General Robert E. Lee becoming commander of all the Confederate troops. A few short weeks later she heard them talking about the Union forces entering South Carolina, but when she asked about the news, Captain Cordell and Chase pasted unreadable expressions on their faces and ignored her questions. Her frustration grew to the point where she finally stopped asking about anything.

When she asked about the mundane day-to-day news of Mainfield, Chase skillfully changed the subject. She had never received an explanation for Rancy Thompson’s mysterious visit, and Chase had abruptly stopped talking to her about his missing memory. She felt as if she were wrapped in cotton and yet there was nothing she could do, nothing she would do, for fear of risking their child.

Instead of the hale and hearty woman she had always been, had strived so hard to be when Chase was away, she was becoming soft and useless. Linese had never been of delicate constitution and her present fragility both frightened and angered her. Tears of anger seemed to be a heartbeat away most of the time. And through it all Chase was loving and kind.

The more she wallowed in her self-pity, the more he patted her rounding tummy and reassured her. It made her fears about losing him increase a thousandfold with each kind word and gentle caress.

She waited, like an eager girl, for Chase to walk through the dining room door each day when he returned from his toil at the
Gazette.
His smile lifted the blanket of concern from her shoulders and for a few hours she was completely happy. It was the pattern of her life through the long weeks and months of the winter of 1864 and the first cold days of 1865.

* * *

Chase slumped into the chair beside the big flat-head press. One good thing had come from Linese’s confinement to bed. His grandfather had been forced to stay close to Cordellane and see she was safe, while Chase was in Mainfield at the
Gazette.
At least it had prevented the old fox from getting into more trouble.

His gunshot wound had healed and, so far at least, Rancy had not been pressured into making any more visits or accusations involving the Cordell family.

Chase yawned and thought again of his child. Only another month or so and they would be parents. Linese’s body had changed so much Chase was in awe. Her bravery made Chase want to weep with pride. Inside he glowed with happiness while their child grew within her.

It was a portent of hope. One that Chase clung to while the war raged on. Both sides of the conflict had been so sure they would beat the other into submission in only a few months, yet Chase read the date on his latest editorial and sighed wearily.

“February 19, 1865.” Who would have thought it would go on for so long? Neither side seemed inclined to give up or give in. Rumor had been circulating in Mainfield, about General Sherman sweeping through South Carolina and sending the Southern troops flowing toward Texas. So far the telegraph office continued to receive reports, but Chase wondered how long that would continue.

Many Unionists were nervous about so many Southern troops in Louisiana and had fled north into Kansas. Local politics were calling for order at any cost, for the profit it would bring to the town. A large segment of Mainfield was still perched firmly atop the fence on the issues of slavery and the only hope Chase had of dislodging them was to continue writing his impassioned editorials calling for victory with honor.

Clusters of people with like opinions clung together for safety. Chase knew he was making enemies on both sides of
the slavery issue with his blunt editorials, but he also knew that the war had to end soon. And the Union had to be victorious—there was no other possibility he would consider.

Mayor Kerney and his group had been unusually quiet, on the surface at least. He yawned again. He set the editorial aside. Tomorrow Hezikiah would set the type and by the next day another issue of the
Gazette
would hit the streets of Mainfield. He looked at the round-faced clock and was shocked to see it was nearing midnight.

“Linese will be worried sick.” He chided himself for not noticing the time. He snuffed out the lamp just before he heard a dull thud outside the door. Chase opened his desk drawer and brought out the Colt Ira had kept for him. He crept to the door and opened it. Warm air rushed outside and swirled in front of him in the frosty night. His breath came in foggy white puffs.

The wan winter moon did little to drive back the darkness. He heard a stifled moan and peered into the shadows between the stable and his temporary newspaper office. A familiar form took shape in the darkness. Chase shoved the Colt into his waistband and bent down.

“Ira?” Chase whispered.

Ira’s eyes fluttered open and he drew in a ragged breath. “Chase, thank God you’re still here.”

Chase lifted Ira’s sheepskin-lined coat and saw a dark stain on the side of Ira’s shirt just below his ribs.

“Have you been shot?” The hair on the back of Chase’s neck bristled. Chase fancied the burn of watching eyes on his back while he grasped Ira’s coat. His half-remembered instincts told him to get Ira inside as quickly as possible, to get out of the open where they made easy targets.

“Not shot.” Ira’s voice was raspy and full of pain. Chase saw Ira’s stallion in the corral. Mist rose from the hot lather on the animal’s chest, neck and a half circle on his back, where a saddle had recently lain.

Chase hefted Ira’s body and took the man’s weight upon himself. Casting wary glances at the darkness across the
street, he quickly ducked inside and bolted the door behind him. Chase found a match and lit the lamp. A tendril of black smoke wafted up before he turned the wick down. Ira slumped into the chair beside the desk with a strangled sigh.

“How bad are you hurt?” Chase watched Ira shrug off the coat and peel the blood-soaked shirt away from a long cut.

“Those Southern pigstickers do make a nice clean hole, don’t they?” Ira joked but Chase was not fooled.

“I’ll go for Doc Lukins,” Chase said.

“No. There’s no time.” Ira looked up at him. He was pale as a ghost and there was fine white line around his taut mouth.

“You’re bleeding, Ira. We need to see to that wound, it probably needs sewing up.”

“This is just a scratch. We can take care of it later. I left someone at the edge of town. You’ve got to go to him, show him the way.”

Dread tightened icy fingers around Chase’s throat. The air in his lungs disappeared. “Show the way where?”

“I know I made you a promise, Chase. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t so important. If he’s caught, he’ll hang. He’s got information that must get through. Spies don’t get good treatment.” Ira coughed and made a hissing sound.

Questions swirled through Chase’s head like snow in a blizzard. Cloudy images of Ira’s face drifted, without form and substance, among shattered memories from long ago. Chase saw a full round moon and a man. The smell of gunpowder wafted around his head. He remembered raising his Colt, remembered the sound of shots. Chase gulped down the feeling the memory brought and turned away from Go-ten. He stared at the rough walls of the small room in agony. If only he could remember.