Page 33 of Christmas at Carnton

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t realize.” She smoothed a hand over his hair and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.

Gradually, his excitement over the day’s activities waned and gave way to fatigue, and she tucked him in on his side of the bed and kissed his forehead, almost regretting it when he slipped off to sleep so quickly.

Because at the moment, silence wasn’t a welcome companion.

She retrieved her plate from downstairs in the kitchen and brought it back upstairs and proceeded to eat most of the sausage and tenderloin along with the chow-chow and a slice of cold buttered corn bread. Delicious didn’t begin to describe it. As she changed into her nightgown, her gaze dropped briefly to the ever-growing swell of her abdomen, and she wondered whether the child was a boy or a girl. Whether they would have Warren’s features and his dark hair—as Andrew did—or her blond hair and fairer skin.

She climbed into bed and pulled up the covers, the sheets cool against her legs.

How long had it been since she’d noticed a man other than Warren? It wasn’t that she’d ceased noticing handsome men after they’d married. She still noticed. But she’d never felt anything for another man since Warren. Not like what she felt with Captain Winston.

Jake.

Thinking about him again brought to mind the way he’d cradled Andrew so gently against his chest, his shirtsleeves rolled up revealing muscular, sun-browned forearms. And the lingering scent of wood smoke mixed with bay rum spice that she’d caught a whiff of when he’d leaned in close.

She squeezed her eyes tight. Noticing those things about him was wrong. No, noticing wasn’t wrong. But dwelling on them was. Or it sure felt like it. As was this unexpected longing inside her. It was unsettling. And unwelcome. And with determination, she wrangled her thoughts toward the lists of preparations for the auction, while pushing the others as far from her mind as she could.

Sounds from within the smokehouse next door drew her attention, and she could hear the men working—silent for the most part, and no doubt tired after such a long day. Only occasionally did she hear the low cadence of conversation, then after a while everything went quiet. And she was grateful when sleep finally crept close.

Before she drifted off, an explanation for how she’d reacted earlier that evening became clearer to her. She was lonely, that’s what it was. Lonely and frightened, worried about the future. And she’d been spending quite a bit of time with Jake. Probably too much time, upon reflection. But for the present that was unavoidable, given that Mrs. McGavock had assigned him to help her with the auction.

Between the twilight of wakefulness and dreams, she realized again that what she felt for him was merely her missing Warren. And being lonely. Being frightened and needing reassurance. That was it. It had to be. Sighing, she tucked the covers closer beneath her chin, determined to believe that.

No matter how false the excuses felt.

His thoughts preoccupied, Jake helped with the cleanup outside, then assisted the men as they salted down the pork, packed the joints, and layered the meat on the cooling shelves in the smokehouse. Finally, he headed back to his cabin, his left shoulder aching much as it had in those first days after he’d been shot.

Over the next hour, he hauled water from the spring and heated it in a cast iron pot over the hearth, then filled a large oblong tin tub about halfway. He stripped and got into the tub and poured the warm water over his shoulders and back using another pot he’d found in the cupboard. The heat felt good to his tired muscles. Much as his apology earlier tonight had worked to soothe his guilty conscience. Aletta had forgiven him.

They’d reached a truce. Friends again. Even if what he still felt for her wasn’t like what he’d felt for any friend before in his life.

He poured several potfuls of warm water over his head, then grabbed the bar of soap and worked up a lather in his hair. While he enjoyed hog killing day, he appreciated the chance to wash away the remnants of it.

Later, the tub emptied and stored again, he sat by the fire in his long johns in the only chair in the room—an ancient rocker made of hickory that would likely outlive him. He picked up today’s newspaper that Mrs. McGavock had left for him in the kitchen, reached for his eyeglasses, and—as he did at every chance—scanned the paper for news of the war, advancements made or losses sustained.

He’d been at Carnton for a little over two weeks now, but it felt like much, much longer. He missed being with his regiment and missed doing what he’d been born to do. And wondered if he’d ever be able to do again.

Tempy had replenished his supply of ingredients for the poultices the doctor had prescribed, and he was using them as instructed but still couldn’t tell a difference. Yet, with flagging hope, at least fifty times a day, he peered through the rifle sight he kept in his pocket, just in case he happened to—

His gaze snagged on the name Chattanooga, and he pulled the newspaper closer.

The recent Federal victory at Chattanooga, a vital railroad hub, has essentially opened the road to Atlanta for the Federal armies. As earlier reported, following the Battle of Chickamauga in September, Confederate troops besieged those of the Federal in Chattanooga. General Grant took command and the siege has been broken, a thinly stretched army of Confederates being driven from the ridges above the town by an impromptu charge by the Army of the Cumberland.

Jake read on, taking in the words on the page—the descriptions of the fallen, the miscalculations of the Confederate command, the capture of the southern flank on Lookout Mountain—and defeat knifed through him with every syllable. He recalled what Colonel Stratton had told him about Generals Grant and Rosencrans moving southward, but it was the concluding sentence of the article that delivered the final blow.

It’s been reported from an unconfirmed source that following the Confederate loss in Chattanooga, General Braxton Bragg—who made a hurried retreat to Dalton, Georgia, after his troops were routed—has resigned. President Davis is said to have immediately accepted his resignation.

Jake felt the air leave his lungs. General Bragg . . . resigned? He bowed his head, his thoughts spinning. Hurried retreat to Dalton. Troops routed. Thinly stretched army of Confederates. He slowly lifted his gaze, the flames from the fire in the hearth blurring in his gaze. And here he was at a farm in Franklin assisting a Women’s Relief Society.

He rose and tossed the newspaper aside.

Suddenly feeling caged and needing to move, he opened the cabin door and stepped outside onto the porch, welcoming the cold air. He breathed deeply, willing the cool to clear his head. The hoot of an owl carried toward him from some distance away, and he looked in the direction of the darkened house, then to Aletta’s window.

Friends. And that’s all they ever would be. For so many reasons. Least of which was the war. He determined right then to contact Colonel Stratton and ask him to review his assignment here. Stratton had sent him to Carnton to fulfill a favor of General Bragg’s to Colonel McGavock. Since Bragg was no longer in command, perhaps Stratton would rescind the order, consider the obligation met, and then Jake could return to his regiment. Still unable to shoot, of course, but there were other ways he could help them win this war.

He simply needed to convince Stratton of that fact.

CHAPTER 12