The Vacant Chair (9 page)

His expression softened with pleasure. “Of course.”

She sat, wanting instead to curl up in his lap like a child and absorb his easy strength. His right arm pillowed his head, the gap in his shirt giving her an eyeful of his powerful biceps and sculpted chest. The lamplight played over his jaw and formed glowing blue highlights in his hair. She shouldn’t be here. Not given how weak and vulnerable she felt. Not with this pull between them. Definitely not when they were alone.

As though he sensed her uncertainty, Justin reached out and took her hand, and let go when she winced. His sharp eyes found the angry marks coloring her skin, though the fever made her whole body felt bruised. He rubbed his thumb over them as if to soothe them away and met her eyes with another frown.

He raised a hand to her cheek, sucked in a breath the instant he touched her. “Brianna, you’re burning up.”

Brianna,
he’d said. Not Mrs. Taylor. He sounded so concerned, his voice at once comforting and protective. Why did that make her want to cry? “I thought so.”

“You need to see a doctor—”

“We ran out of ether and chloroform earlier,” she said softly instead, taking solace in his presence. One patient had nearly bent the bones in her hands, he’d squeezed so hard in his agony. “That’s how many men came in.”

His frown deepened. “We need to get you some medicine.”

She shook her head, not wanting to cause a fuss. Besides, the best medicine for her right now was being with him. He’d been right about her not wanting to admit her feelings, but it was a difficult thing to confess.

It hurt to feel this much again and know she was about to lose him. Of their own volition, her fingers slipped up to his cheek and swept a lock of hair from his temple, her need to touch him overpowering everything else.

He stilled at the contact, concern and growing heat battling in his eyes.

Something about the quiet way he watched her allowed her to keep talking. “I’m so tired of this war,” she admitted in a whisper. “I hate all the butchering and the suffering and the death…I’m so tired of it all.” He was a soldier. He must understand what she meant.

He hesitated a moment then lifted his hand and stroked a thumb across her cheek. The tenderness of the gesture zinged through her like lightning, speared her heart. In a different time and place, she might have leaned forward into that touch and kissed him.

Instead she stared at their joined hands resting on his chest. “I became a nurse to care for our soldiers, but instead I help patch them up so they can charge right back into battle.”
Like you will when you recover.
Regardless of her efforts to stay calm, her eyes stung. “So they can go and get shot to pieces all over again. I
hate
it…” Her voice caught, throat too tight to continue. The prospect of him returning to the battlefield terrified her, even more than watching him leave here when he was strong enough.

“Brianna.”

“What?” She drew a steadying breath.

He cupped her cheek in one large hand, eyes intent on hers. “I wish I could get out of this bed and hold you, but I can’t, so you'll have to come here.”

The air whooshed out of her lungs. She wanted that so badly she almost whimpered. Yet she didn’t dare give in.

Those deep blue eyes never wavered from hers as he eased his hand around to cradle her nape and tugged gently. “Come here,” he repeated in a low voice.

She sat paralyzed, fighting the compassion in his eyes, the longing his touch stirred within her. Her skin tingled all over. She held her breath as he cupped her jaw and trailed a thumb over her lips. His touch burned her.

Before she could protest, he made the decision for her and pulled her close with the hand on the back of her neck. She sucked in a breath and made a last-ditch effort to resist, but it was futile. She could hear his soft breathing and feel the heat of his skin, the rapid thrum of her blood as it rushed through her body.

Undeterred by her hesitation, he determinedly brought her closer and angled his face until his cheek grazed hers. His breath fanned her temple. Goose bumps raced over her body. Patient fingers moved through the back of her hair and around her neck to her jaw, up the sides of her face. With agonizing slowness he caressed her skin with his fingertips, nuzzled her hairline.

Hunger roared through her in a blast of need. Her lashes fluttered against his cheek like the beat of a trapped butterfly’s wings. Pressing her closer, he touched his lips to her eyelid, light as a sigh. She grabbed his hard shoulders and stiffened, but he didn’t release her. Her entire body hummed with awareness as his gossamer kisses moved across her cheek, slowly enough to make her tremble. 

Brianna grasped fistfuls of his shirt to keep from taking his face in her hands. She wanted to turn her head and kiss him back. Wanted it until her heart slammed against her ribs.

“Closer,” he urged in a whisper. “Lay your head on me.” 

She trembled, part fever, part longing. “I can’t. If someone sees—”

His grip on her nape tightened a fraction. The coolness of his hand felt so good against her hot skin. “I won’t let that happen.”

The protective tone melted her.
She was aching for him. Weak.

That gentle grip turned firm, commanding. “Angel, don’t fight me. Let me hold you.” His voice was a velvet whisper at her ear.

Angel
. His tenderness broke her heart. She didn’t want to fight it anymore. This time when he guided her head down to his shoulder, she went willingly, careful to stay away from his bandaged side so she wouldn’t hurt him. A soft groan of relief came from his throat, as though he’d wanted this as much as she had. His heavy arms encircled her, cradled her against the warmth of his body. He was strong and solid, even better than she’d imagined. The scent of soap and musk filled her nose, wrapping around her in another layer of comfort. She closed her eyes as he began to stroke a hand through her hair and a shudder rippled through her. Sweet God, she’d needed this.

His breath whispered against her temple, stirring more shivers. “I hate seeing you sick like this. And so sad. ”

She laid a shaky hand over his heart. The steady beat of it beneath her palm soothed her. It was so wrong of her to want their bodies pressed flush together.

He shifted and brought her closer still, one broad palm gliding over the length of her back. She snuggled her cheek into him, craving so much more.

“I know you feel disheartened. I wish you’d never seen the things you have. And even though I would do anything to take it all away, you have to know you’re a
wonderful
nurse.” His other hand settled on the back of her head, caressing her nape beneath the thick knot of her chignon.

She shook her head, battling tears. A good nurse wouldn’t be crossing a boundary that would surely get her dismissed.

I need him.
Eyes still closed, she absorbed every sensory detail of the forbidden embrace. If this was all she’d ever have with him, she intended to remember all of it.

He continued the soothing motion on her back. “And you have magical hands.”

Her throat closed up. “I wish that were true.”

Justin stroked the crown of her head. So comforting. She yearned to crawl up and wrap around him, experience the full imprint of his body against her. Just for a minute.

“It is true,” he insisted. “I would know you anywhere by your touch. When I was first brought in and couldn’t even open my eyes, I knew instantly when you touched me. Your hands are gentle and soothing.”

Brianna smiled against his shoulder. “That may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.” Did he feel this longing as strongly as she did? Or was he offering comfort because he considered himself indebted to her? She was on the verge of falling in love with a man she hardly knew. Maybe she was already falling. She wasn’t sure anymore. “I have to go.” Hating to do it, she pulled away from his embrace and forced her shaking legs under her.  

He caught her fingers, moved them up to encircle her wrist so he wasn’t touching the marks on the back of her hand. “Stay.”

She shook her head. “I want to, but I can’t.”

His eyes searched her flushed face. They were shadowed with concern and something else she couldn’t identify. “Promise me you’ll see one of the doctors.” He sounded so frustrated, she knew if he’d been well enough he would have been out of that bed in a heartbeat and coming after her.

“It’s nothing serious.”

His grip tightened. “Promise me.”

Promise me…

Caleb’s dying wish. She never thought she’d see the day where she might consider granting it.

“I’ll see someone in a while if I don’t improve.” Maybe after she’d finished her next rounds she’d find Dr. Healey. If it was serious, she’d better do what she could before she became too ill to function. 

He didn’t look like he believed her. “Promise?”

“Yes.” God help her, she wanted to lie back down beside him and burrow into his arms for the night. They’d felt like heaven around her. “Sleep well, Captain.”

“Justin.” The forcefulness of his tone jolted her. His gaze bored into her, demanding she acknowledge the irrevocable shift in their relationship. “Call me Justin.”

She inclined her head, realizing there was no going back now. “All right. I’ll see you in the morning, Justin.” It felt so strange and forbidden to say his name aloud. Another boundary crossed. One of so many. Wrapping her arms around her body, she walked out into the damp night air and shivered at the sudden chill pervading her.

Chapter Nine

Early the next morning, Dr. Healey burst into the tent Brianna was working in, carrying a pile of mail. Knowing he’d see the fever in her face, she ducked her head to avoid his sharp gaze. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and tried to stem the shivers wracking her so he wouldn’t notice.

“Two letters for you today.” He handed her the thin, yellowed envelopes with a smile and walked away. She left after him for some privacy, and walked to Justin’s tent to stand outside it.

She shook her head at herself, the motion pulling at her cramped, stiff muscles. Her head throbbed.
You are pathetic and shameless. And you need to go home to bed.

Turning her attention to her letters, she tore one of them open. Morgan’s scrawling hand covered the page and she closed her eyes in relief. It was dated almost six weeks ago, but at least at that time he’d still been uninjured, in Georgia. They’d promoted him to lieutenant, since the others had been either wounded or killed. 

She folded it to tuck it into her apron pocket and glanced up to find Justin watching her from his bed. He gave her a welcoming smile. “Good morning,” he called out. “Feeling any better?”

“A little,” she lied. The sight of him made her heart swell. His color was better and he seemed to be moving with much less difficulty. She entered the tent and bade the other men good morning, still embarrassed by her bold behavior the previous night.

Justin frowned as she reached his bedside. “You’re still flushed. Did you see a doctor?”

“It’s just the flu.”

“Then shouldn’t you be resting?” He arched a condemning brow at her, making her feel like she was one of his troopers facing his disapproval.

“I’ll be fine.”

He sighed but let it go and gestured to her hand, where the marks had faded a little on her skin. “News from home?”

She was glad for the change of subject. “Yes, from my brother, and thankfully he’s doing well.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Don’t let me keep you from your reading.” He eyed her with mock wariness. “I’ll be a willing accomplice in any activity that spares me from having my wounds doused in carbolic acid.”

Smiling, she tore open the remaining letter and read the unfamiliar handwriting.  

Dear Madam:

We regret to inform you that on the evening of May 19, 1864, Major John Douglas succumbed to the effects of pneumonia after battling it for several days…

Her smile vanished. The words blurred on the page. All the blood drained from her face, making her feel even colder.

No.

She couldn’t take this. Not now.

Brianna slipped the letter into her apron pocket, aware of an aching hole in her chest. Her father, dead? She swallowed, catching Justin’s concerned expression.

He started to sit up, then winced and placed a hand against his bandaged side. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“Please excuse me,” she blurted. Without a backward glance, she hurried off to her temporary tent and sank down on the bed, staring numbly at the letter.
I should be crying.
She touched her cheek, found it dry and hot. There should be tears. What was wrong with her? Was she that callous?

Without warning, a memory came flooding back in a suffocating rush.

“What the hell are you doing here?” a male voice roared.

There was no mistaking the harsh tone, the fearful volume. She closed her eyes and squeezed her hands into fists to stop their trembling.
Do
something. She had to get Morgan away from the house before a fistfight broke out.

The housekeeper’s voice carried up the stairs, shrill with panic. “For God’s sake, Mistah John, let him go!”

Something smashed against the wall. A body?

She sucked in a breath and ran for the stairs.

Morgan’s voice, cold and angry. “I won’t fight you, Father.” 

“You’ll be fighting me soon enough, you traitorous bastard! Might as well get this over with right here.”

Her father stood in front of her brother, fists raised. Morgan’s nose was bleeding. They faced off like prizefighters, unwilling to back down.

They locked gazes until Morgan strode past their father toward the front door. A deadly click halted him mid-stride. Brianna gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. Her gaze fastened on the revolver clutched in her father’s hand.

Morgan stared impassively down the barrel of the weapon. 

 “Father, no! What are you doing?” The words tore out of her as she flew down the stairs and launched herself at him, trying to pry the revolver from his grasp. Drawing a gun on his flesh and blood? Was he insane?

His face was a mask of rage as he peeled her hand free. “Goddammit, Bree,” he shouted, trying to push past her without hurting her and dodging Morgan as he came forward to protect her. “Get out of the way.” He shoved her, sent her skidding into the wall at the same instant as a shot exploded.

Everything stilled.

The bitter tang of gunpowder hung in the air. Everyone was staring at her in horror. Or, rather, just above her. Slumped against the wall, eyes wide, she followed their gazes up to the single bullet hole marring the plaster, inches above her head. The blood drained from her face. She stared at it for a long moment, then back into her father’s shocked face.

He’d nearly killed her.

Ashen, he cursed and stuffed the pistol into his waistband, then reached down to help her up. 

“Don’t you dare touch her,” Morgan spat. He pulled her off the floor himself and brought her behind him, protecting her with his body.

From their own father.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up her throat. She choked it down and lifted blank eyes to his as cold swept through her. He looked at her, then Morgan, pain marking every feature. He reached for her, expression full of apology, but she shrank back and pressed close to her brother.

His eyes dulled. He swallowed a couple of times, as if he might throw up. “I wouldn’t have shot you,” he said gruffly to Morgan. “I only meant to make you leave the house.” 

“Just get out of our way before someone does get shot.” No one could have missed the threat underlying Morgan’s words.

Her father’s eyes pleaded with her for forgiveness, but she was too numb to say anything. She was cracking apart, screaming inside. Without a word, she turned and ran out of the house.

Brianna sucked in a shuddering breath and pulled herself out of the past.

That horrible day was the last time she’d ever seen her father. Now there would never be a chance for reconciliation, a hope she’d held on to all this time. Her stomach balled up hard beneath her ribs, nausea roiling through her. Oh God, she was going to be sick.

With effort, she jerked her mind back from the nightmare of her past and forced a few slow breaths to quell her uneasy stomach. She was still staring at the letter when Ella-May poked her head in.

“Bree, come quickly. Mr. Cunningham insists on seeing you—he’s arguing with the surgeon about his leg and causing quite a scene.” When Brianna didn’t move, she gave her an odd look and came closer. “Bree? What on earth is the matter with you?” She laid a motherly hand on her shoulder. “You don’t look well. Are you sick?”

Brianna looked up at her friend, wanting to cry. How could she bear this? “I…this letter…” She trailed off, unable to continue.

“Mr. Cunningham asked for you specifically.”

Who? Oh, the cranky Texan she’d been looking after. “Is it serious?” She shivered, her body burning, hands and feet like ice. Just like the lump where her heart was supposed to be.

Her friend arched a dark eyebrow. “Would I have come for you if it wasn’t?”

She sighed and pressed her hands against her throbbing temples. She was a moment away from cracking in two.
Focus. Don’t think about it right now.
“All right.” She got to her feet and navigated her way through the avenues of tents to find her distressed patient. 

Turned out she could have found him blindfolded from all the yelling and cursing. By the time doctor Healey arrived and dismissed the other enraged—and clearly intoxicated—surgeon, a flood of weakness threatened to lay her out on the floor. At least they’d saved Zach’s leg from a premature amputation. For now, anyway.

Facing her, Dr. Healey narrowed his eyes and stalked over to lay a practiced hand on her forehead, strong and comforting against her hot skin. She closed her eyes and leaned into it for a moment, her trust in him overriding decorum. 

He pulled his hand away and shook his head at her. “I told you before you needed rest. Now go and lie down before you fall.” His words were clipped.

“All right.” She said goodbye to Zach, heartened by his grateful expression. 

“Good day, soldier.” Healey took Brianna by the elbow. 

“Good day, Mrs. Taylor,” the Texan called, the lone Confederate in this part of the hospital. He waved at her, his silhouette outlined by the sunlight against the walls of the tent. “I can’t wait to tell the folks back home how a brave little spitfire stood toe to toe with a man twice her size—drunk at that—and whupped him. Whupped him, by God! Are you sure that’s not Rebel blood running through your veins? I’ll never forget this, I surely won’t. I’ll tell my family about a nurse who had eyes the color of thunderclouds—”

Healey’s lips thinned as he propelled her away from the delirious patient. “Let’s get out of here before he starts writing sonnets about you,” he grumbled. Outside, he took her by surprise by catching her chin in his hand and tilting her face up, his sherry-brown eyes delving into hers. “Your fever is high. I bet you hurt all over, don’t you?”

She dropped her gaze and didn’t bother to deny it.

He sighed. “Vomiting or diarrhea?”

Leave it to Dr. Healey to be blunt. “No.”

“Abdominal cramps?”

She shook her head. If she’d had those symptoms or feared she was contagious, she would have gone home so as not to risk spreading them to the patients.

He grunted. “I want you to go to bed and stay there until you’re better, do you understand? I’m going to send Ella-May in with some hot tea and broth, and then I’ll be back to check on you when I can.” He didn’t release her, though his grip gentled and the hand on her elbow moved in a tender stroke over her skin.

Jerking her head up, Brianna caught the tenderness and quiet yearning burning in his eyes. It stunned her. How had she never noticed it before? He was her friend; she didn’t want to hurt him.

He stepped back, cleared his throat and said a perfunctory goodbye. Brianna went straight to her temporary tent and crawled beneath the covers on her cot, too numb to know what to feel anymore.

When Ella-May woke her a few hours later, Brianna took in her friend’s pinched expression and knew something awful had happened.

“I’m so sorry to wake you, but… It’s Tim,” she told her softly.

No. Not Tim.

Shivering, Brianna dragged herself out of her bed, stiff and achy, legs rubbery beneath her. The second she entered Tim’s tent, she knew why Ella-May had come to her.

Tim lay on his back, wheezing. His face was an ungodly shade of gray and shiny from perspiration. She dropped her basket of medicine and moved to his side, pressing a hand to his forehead. Clammy and cool.

 Her brain refused to believe it.
Don’t quit, Tim!
She fought the sting of tears, struggled to raise his upper body from the mattress with desperate hands to help ease the strain on his lungs. The room swung for a moment before she could right herself and find her voice. “Someone help me!” she cried, bringing two more nurses rushing into the tent. They lifted him, propped pillows behind him, and he managed to open his eyes. Hope swelled, tight and painful in her chest.

“You’re all right now, Tim. You can breathe easier.”  He was suffocating before her eyes and there was nothing she could do to help him. Tears clogged her throat.

Tim gave her a shadow of the smile that was so dear to her. “Don’t you…cry for me, ma’am,” he rasped. “No…crying. I’ll be—” He gasped and jerked upward, choking, his eyes growing wild with a moment’s panic. Her heart twisted. After a few moments he seemed to calm again. “Heaven…soon.”

He closed his eyes and relaxed, as if he was still aware that she was with him and would not leave him alone for even a moment. Brianna fought for every breath with him, dying a little each time he choked on the fluid in his lungs, hating the gurgling noises that told her he didn’t have much longer, loving him even more for the way he tried to die as bravely as he had done everything else.

Pneumonia had eventually taken Caleb from her. And her father…his death must have been much the same as this.

Time dragged on while Tim labored for each rattling breath, the rhythm becoming slower, fading before her eyes. Brianna stayed beside him.

When that huge chest that had been full of nothing but heart finally stopped moving, she closed her eyes and a tear flashed down her cheek. The wheezing noises ceased and the tent filled with an eerie silence. Tim’s eyes were closed, a faint smile on his lips even in death.

She barely noticed the other nurses leaving. She wanted to howl in agony.