Little Love Affair (Southern Romance 1)

“Take as long as you wish. I would wait for you forever.”

She could only manage a jerky nod, and then she turned and half ran back to the barn, rounding the corner and breaking into a sprint as soon as she was away. The forest loomed dark and comforting ahead of her, and Clara ran as if the Confederate army itself was at her heels.

She was crying, she realized. She stopped as she entered the shadow of the forest, wiping at her cheeks. This was ridiculous. It was a marriage proposal, not a death sentence. What on earth could be upsetting her so? She took a deep breath. She had to think clearly.

Is this all there is? The thought came out of nowhere and the tears returned in a rush. Clara pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. Was every year going to be spent waiting for Solomon to come home, the farm teetering on the brink of destruction and Clara herself growing older and older as C

ecelia married, and then Cyrus—for he would not truly wait forever, she knew—and finally she was left all alone on the farm?

What was she holding out for? What did she think might happen, some knight on a white horse would ride up to the farm one day and sweep her off her feet? She was being childish, she told herself, resolutely ignoring the image of dark eyes and brown hair swept over a man’s brow. Love was for stories, and a kind man, her mother had always said, was worth more than any riches. It was true, wasn’t it?

She should tell Cyrus yes. She knew she should.

Something in her heart flared to rebellion and she took a deep, shuddering breath. Solomon was going to come home. And then everything would be right again. She opened her eyes and straightened her dress, trying to force a smile onto her face. Cecelia would want to know what Cyrus had talked about, and Clara would need a very convincing lie—or at least, to speak about it without crying. She turned to make her way down the hill and stopped.

Jasper was leaning against a tree nearby, his dark eyes worried.

“Are you...” His voice trailed away. “Clara—Miss Dalton—if he hurt you...”

“No.” Clara shook her head. “He didn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t. He...” Well, it was none of this man’s business. “I don’t wish to trouble you.”

“I see.” He gave a pained sort of smile at her retreat. “Then I shall leave you in peace. I should see to Horace.”

“Does he have any care at all?” Clara asked, seeing the sudden worry in his eyes.

“He has me, and I keep the wound as clean as...” His shoulders slumped. “No. No care. I’m no doctor.”

“There are some herbs that might help,” Clara said, after a moment of thought. They could not bring his friend to town, to the doctor, but there were a few things they might still try. She nodded decisively and hiked up her skirts to thread her way through the underbrush. “Come along, I’ll help you find them.”

At the very least, she decided, it would keep her mind off of Cyrus. And if part of her thrilled at the idea of time spent in Jasper’s company, well... Surely there was no harm in that, was there?

Chapter 7

“What’re we looking for?” Jasper cast about in the undergrowth.

“Willow bark for the fever. That’ll be easy.” Clara peered around the roots of an oak tree. “Yarrow and Indian pipe. Also comfrey leaves. My mother would never admit to it, but her family always binds comfrey into wounds, with a prayer.” She cast a mischievous look over her shoulder. “If you asked her, she would say it was nonsense, but she always does it.”

“What does yarrow look like?”

“A spray of golden flowers, like Queen Anne’s Lace.” She knelt to peer under a bush.

“Thank you,” Jasper said. He was getting used to saying it to her, and it felt inadequate.

“Don’t mention it.” She avoided his eyes. “It’s really...It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” he told her, anger rising unexpectedly. “It’s incredibly kind.”

“Why do you keep saying that?” Her voice was almost sharp. “You’re working for your keep.”

“I wouldn’t be if you had turned me in,” Jasper snapped back. It was truly amazing how quickly fear and thwarted desire could flare into anger. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t. You should have. I’ve been in battles, Miss Dalton. So has Horace. We’ve fought the Union. Everyone in that house down there would turn us in without a second thought if they knew who we were.”

“Are you trying to persuade me to do so?” Her voice was incredulous. She sat back on her heels to stare at him.

She was so lovely, wisps of blonde hair escaping from her braid that Jasper could not think for a moment.

“I simply want to know why you did not,” he said finally. He wished he could go and take her hands in his own and tell her that he loved the calluses on her fingertips and the sun on her skin—that she was everything he had never thought of in a woman, and that it was glorious. He wanted to tell her that her honor was no less for her kindness and that he had never imagined that a Union woman would be the one to save his life.

She looked away, her profile proud and sad under the dappled shadows of the trees, and her hands twisted in her lap.