“Clara’s back.”
“What?” The man pushed himself up on his elbows, brow furrowed. “What did you say?”
“Don’t be angry,” Jasper spared him a worried glance. He wanted to run to Clara, take her in his arms, and yet he knew what his friend would say if he knew. “She’s the farmer’s daughter I mentioned. She went to get you medicine.”
“Clara?” Horace gasped the name and slumped back against the bed. “Jasper, tell me this is a joke.”
In his friend’s accusing eyes, Jasper could see everything his friend must think of him: a turncoat, fraternizing with Yankees, taking aid from them and speaking their names with kindness. Had Horace seen his smile? Jasper knew he could not hide his love, not for a moment. Shame wormed in his gut, and a furious pride as well. How could he be ashamed of loving a woman like Clara?
Yet he would not let Horace’s pride get the man killed.
“I wasn’t going to let you die,” Jasper pleaded. “Horace, couldn’t. When you meet her, you’ll see that she—”
“You cannot let her in here!” The voice came out in a hiss, desperate. Horace tried to push himself up, and staggered.
“Don’t try to move,” Jasper begged. He was at his friend’s side, and he drew in his breath sharply when Jasper hauled him close. The man’s eyes were wide and staring, feverish. Deranged.
“She cannot come in here, do you understand me?” His voice was a hiss. “Send her away.”
“She went to get medicine for you.” Jasper tried to unclench his friend’s hands from his shirt and could not. “Horace...”
“Send her away.” His teeth were bared in a grimace. “Do it, Jasper. You have no idea what’s at stake.”
“I have a very good idea what’s at stake!” Jasper hissed back. “You’re dying, and I won’t let you. I’ve worked down in those fields for a week to keep food in our bellies and your wound clean. I knew the risks I was taking, believe me.”
“Not this one.” Horace released him at last, half throwing him away. “Tell her nothing, do you understand me? If you have any loyalty me at all, Jasper, I beg you. Send her away.”
Jasper’s heart twisted.
“I’ll kill myself, I swear it.” His friend’s blue eyes were steady on his.
“You will do no such thing.” Jasper’s voice was dangerous.
“I will,” Horace said after a pause.
“Fine.” Jasper pushed himself to his feet and strode out of the cabin.
Clara was barely a few steps away, and he suppressed an exclamation at the sight of her. Her eyes were red with tears, and the red gown that had so accentuated her fair skin a day ago now showed only how pale and drawn she had become.
“Clara?” He stepped forward, and she came to a halt.
“He’s....” Her voice broke. “He’s dead, Jasper.”
“Your brother,” he guessed, cold dread sinking into his stomach, and her face crumpled.
“Yes.”
“Clara.” It would take an army to keep him from her now. He enfolded her in his arms and felt her body shudder with sobs.
Her voice was half whisper, half cry. “They’re all back except him. They never found him, and I have to go tell my mother that she can’t even bury him. I’ll never see him and...” Her voice trailed off in a sob. “I’ll never know what happened. If he died alone, if he cried out for help. Nothing.”
The cry broke his heart, and Jasper held her close, feeling tears welling in his own eyes. She was not a Yankee now. She was a young woman in pain. He had seen the faces of the families before he marched. They had turned out to watch the armies go, and in their eyes he had seen the cold knowledge that not all of them would come home again.
He had faced the breaking of his faith in the mangled bodies of his fellow soldiers, but never until now had he thought what became of the Union soldiers. Shame made his cheeks burn, and Jasper bent his head over Clara’s, holding her close. He would have killed her brother if they had met in battle. He...
It occurred to him now, for the first time, that he might have done so. He could not bear to ask where the man had been lost.
He wanted to wretch, wanted to get down on his knees and beg Clara’s forgiveness. For the first time, his rage at the Union was tumbled over, not just in his care for this woman but for everything she represented. He was losing himself on this hill, in this northern country, and he could no longer have said whether he was even sure what he was losing.