Rachel's Choice (4 page)

Hours passed, and the day faded into darkness. With it came an unnatural quiet, broken only by the boom of artillery far away. He heard no moans from the dying, no horse's whinny, not even the call of a night bird.

Just before dawn Chance saw the first bobbing lantern in the distance. He strained to hear voices, hoping that they'd be familiar Southern accents rather than clipped Yankee speech. But his wishing was in vain.

When the two Union infantrymen leveled their rifles at him, he tossed away his pistol and surrendered.

“I'm not a coward, but neither am I a fool,” he said.

“No one could call you a coward, Chance Chancellor.”

Bewildered, Chance opened his eyes, looking not into the face of a Yankee sergeant but that of Rachel Irons.

“The soldiers,” he murmured. “I thought I saw …”

“Shhh, it's the fever. You must have been dreaming.” She pulled a clean sheet over him. “I've bandaged your arm again. You've been unconscious for hours.” Her dark eyes were full of compassion.

“Hours?” He tried to think through the fog in his head. “Where am I?”

“In my farmhouse.” She felt his forehead. “Lie still, and don't try to talk. I gave you chloroform when I excised the dead flesh and cleaned the wound; then I administered opium for the pain. It's natural that you're confused.” Her tone softened. “Try and sleep as much as you can. We must give your body time to heal.”

She smiled at him as her fingers closed over his. Was this the same woman who'd been so harsh toward him? He thought he remembered grabbing the front of her dress, but he wasn't sure if that had really happened or if it was another dream. And if it was real, why hadn't she been frightened? He wondered if he was dying. Strangely he couldn't summon the energy to care.

Rachel wrung out a wet cloth and laid it across his brow. “I used the last of Father's quinine to bring down your fever. Now I'm treating your wound with Indian
root medicine.” She smiled again. “My father wouldn't approve, but then there was a lot about me that he didn't approve of. His medical textbooks call for using nitric acid to burn out the dead tissue and for bleeding the patient.” She spread her palms expressively. “Does it make sense to you that physicians should drain blood from a man who's nearly bled to death?”

“Indian roots?” His tongue felt thick, too large for his mouth. At home, in Richmond, before the war, he could have commanded the services of the finest physicians. Here he was at the mercy of an uneducated farmer's wife. And unless he was more muddled than he thought, she'd done her surgery on him while he lay on the kitchen floor. It was hardly reassuring.

“My grandmother was a Lenape Indian. People say I have her hair and eyes, but I wouldn't know. Her hair was silver gray when I knew her.”

Chance licked his lips. “Water.”

He heard the creak of a pitcher pump, and then she returned with a cup of water and a spoon. “Only a sip,” she cautioned. “Too much will make you sick.”

The few drops of water did little to quench his thirst. “More,” he urged.

“Later.” She laid her hand on his cheek. “You're fevered, but not burning up. When you can drink, I'll brew you willow root tea.” Her hands were strong and gentle, and her touch felt better than the water. He didn't want her to take her hands away.

“More Indian medicine?”

“My grandmother was a powerful healer. People came from miles for her cures. It made my father furious, especially when her patients got better. My grandmother never charged a fee. I think that's what made Father angriest.”

“Why … why are you doing this?” he managed to ask. “For me?”

“Sleep now,” she urged him. “We'll talk when you're stronger.”

Chance gave up the effort to keep his eyes open. The kitchen and the dark-haired woman faded as he drifted off into the mist of unconsciousness.

It was dark when he woke again. He was too weak to raise his head, but she lifted it and spooned water between his cracked lips. From across the room the big black dog stared at him with fierce eyes.

He didn't know anything more until sunshine shone through the window and warmed his face. Rachel smiled down at him. “Your fever's broken.”

“Are … are you certain I still have my arm?”

“You feel it, don't you?”

“Yes, but … but I've heard men say …” His voice failed him. He wanted to tell her that it was common knowledge that many felt a missing arm after it was gone. They even had a name for it—phantom limb.

His head hurt and his thinking seemed more rational, but he couldn't put his thoughts into words. And he felt so weak. “Thank you,” he whispered. His arm still ached, but either the pain was less or he'd gotten too sick to feel the difference.

“I've a bargain to offer you, Reb.”

He tried to focus on her face.

“I need help to put in my crop.” She touched her protruding belly, and her cheeks colored in the lantern light. “Have you ever plowed a furrow or planted corn?”

“No.”

She shook her head impatiently. “I should have
guessed as much. You don't have the hands of a workingman, and your speech is too fancy. What were you before the war? A banker?”

“I'm a lawyer.” He swallowed, thinking, I was a lawyer, and I will be again if I survive this war.

“I've no need of such talents. What I want is a strong back. It's impossible to hire laborers. They've all been drafted. If you'll give me your word that you'll stay until harvest, I'll not call the authorities on you. I'll hide you here until fall. After my crop is in, you can go back to General Lee or to hell for all I care.”

“You want me to work for you … on the farm?”

“What did I just say?” She shook her head again, and one straight shining lock of dark hair came loose. “For a man who claims to make his living cheating honest folks with words, you're thick enough.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I'm offering you freedom, after a fashion, and I'm risking my own neck to do it.”

Chance inhaled slowly. “As a Confederate soldier, you know it's my duty to escape and return to my regiment.”

“You're more dead than alive. If you did reach Virginia, you'd be of little use to your army.”

“And if I did agree, what makes you think a Southern lawyer can be trusted to keep a bargain?”

“Trust?” Her brown eyes narrowed. “I'm not such a fool. Trust an escaped prisoner? Trust a man who'd go to war to keep other men in chains of slavery?”

“If you don't trust me, then why—”

“What choice do I have?”

“You want me to stay here on this farm until autumn? You give me your word that you'll not turn me over to the Union soldiers?” He drew a hand over his eyes and tried to think.

Was this woman's proposal honorable? What about Travis? He'd promised his best friend that he'd come back for him. Common sense told him that Travis had died that night on the beach, but if there was the slightest possibility Travis had survived, he had to rescue him. And he had a score to even with the Dutchman.

“Make up your mind, Reb. Yes or no.”

She was right. He couldn't walk now, let alone fight his way back into Fort Delaware and kill Coblentz. And if he stayed here long enough to heal, he was only a short distance from the prison.

“Will your husband object?” he asked her. “You know you're committing treason by hiding me.”

She held his gaze without flinching.

When she didn't answer, Chance knew that his earlier assumption had been correct. “Your man isn't here, is he?” he said. “Your husband's fighting in the war.”

She nodded. “The war took him as well as my draft animals.”

“Then you're alone here?”

She stiffened. “Alone except for my dogs and a shotgun I know how to use.”

His head hurt, and it was hard to summon the energy to speak. “I told you … you've nothing to fear from me.”

“Just a hemp necklace if I'm found out. President Lincoln takes a dim view of traitors who harbor the enemy.”

He was too weary to fight a losing battle. “I'll take your offer, Rachel Irons,” he answered reluctantly. “But on conditions of my own.”

“You're in no position to—”

“Oh, but I am,” he said. “You'll use my given name.
Reb grates on my nerves. Chance will do, or even Chancellor.”

“You've nerve for a man with no options, I'll say that for you,” she admitted with a chuckle.

“And you, a lone woman, to harbor a dangerous man.”

“I'd sooner make a pact with the devil than the likes of you. No doubt he'd be more likely to keep his word.” Her lips curved into a wry smile. “But he isn't here, is he? And he'd probably be no handier with a hoe than you.”

It was two days before Chance could summon the strength to crawl back up on the daybed and another day before he could sit up. Gradually his bouts with fever ended, and he felt himself begin to improve almost hourly.

Now that his mind was beginning to function again, he began to notice his surroundings.

Rachel Irons's kitchen was large and spotlessly clean with bright red-and-white-checked curtains at the window and a thick braided rug on the floor between the daybed and the cookstove. The furnishings were old-fashioned and sturdy; a large pine hutch against one wall had probably been crafted many generations ago. Rachel's dishes were plain and chipped, her silverware worn thin with use, but she kept a handful of wildflowers in the center of her table and threw open the door and windows to let in the fresh air.

It was a restful house, and although Rachel appeared to have little in material goods, she seemed naturally cheerful. When she was outside, Chance could hear her laughing and playing with her dogs. Sometimes he was certain he heard her singing.

She was not so free-spirited with him. Rachel's laughter
or even smiles came few and far between when they were together. Usually she spoke to him as little as possible.

“You'll need something to wear,” she said to him one day as she prepared the noon meal. Leaving the soup simmering on the back of the stove, she opened a board-and-batten door that led to a narrow, twisting staircase. “I have something upstairs that should do.”

When Rachel returned, she carried men's clothing and a pair of low-heeled farmer's boots. “The shoes and trousers belonged … belong to my husband, James. The pants will be big on you, but I can take the waist in. The shirt was Granddad's. You're wider across the shoulders than James. I've cut the stitches and removed the sleeve. I can sew it on again later, when you mend.”

“Thank you,” he said. There were underthings in the pile, but she made no comment on them and neither did he.

“No need to thank me,” she replied tartly. “I can't have you working in my fields in the altogether, can I?”

She helped him don the shirt, a painful procedure, then left him alone so that he could struggle into the trousers. When he slid his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand, she came into the room and supported him as he walked to the table for the ample noonday meal.

“You've gentle hands for such a no-nonsense woman,” he told her.

She averted her eyes. “Should I let you fall and undo all my nursing?”

“You've a kind heart, Rachel Irons,” he replied. “I'll not let you convince me otherwise.”

“My heart is none of your concern, sir. All I ask is
that you heal quickly so that you can keep your part of our bargain.” She went to the stove and began to ladle delicious-smelling soup into thick crockery bowls. “I hope you're hungry.”

“Always.”

Chance was certain that Rachel's cooking had something to do with his recovery. He hadn't enjoyed such food for months, and he hadn't eaten so regularly since the war began.

She'd tempted his appetite with chicken broth, seasoned with onion and pepper. When he'd been able to keep that down, she'd added homemade noodles and dried carrots and mushrooms to the soup. Next she'd begun to prepare biscuits and yeast bread, both so light that he wondered that they didn't rise to the ceiling, dripping with fresh-churned butter, honey, or strawberry jam.

“I've never had such soup,” he'd complimented her as he tasted the first spoonfuls.

“You can thank Agatha for that.” And no amount of questioning had clarified her mysterious answer.

The chicken soup had been followed by delicately poached fish and steamed seafood that evening. Rachel's table groaned with omelets, pigeon, smoked ham, new potatoes, dried-fruit cobblers, and greens cut from the fields and woods. Her meals were simple, seasoned with herbs from the garden near the back door, and they always included fresh vegetables such as early peas, spinach, radishes, and turnips.

“I am a plain cook,” Rachel explained. “You must make due with farm fare or starve.”

“No man of sense could find fault with your meals,” he'd replied with a smile. She didn't smile back.

Rachel Irons was the only female he'd ever known who appeared completely immune to his charms.

He'd always been a man who was fond of women. He liked the sound of their laughter and the way their skirts swayed when they walked. He enjoyed flirting with them, and he loved the taste of their lips and the soft feel of their skin. Young or old, it didn't matter; he'd always had a special relationship with females, and they seemed to feel the same way about him. A grin and a few sweet words had always earned him their trust.

This approach was definitely not working with Rachel.

“Don't poke fun at me,” she said. “I know that rich people eat differently than we do.”

“What makes you think I'm wealthy?” It was true, or had been true before the war, but he resented her assumption. She said “rich” in a way that made the word an insult.