A Heartbeat Away: Quilts of Love Series by S. Dionne Moore

in her mind and she still could not make sense of it. If life was hope, then she was better off dead.
    “Beth?”
    Her throat seized up and she slipped her hand out from under his. She avoided the searching eyes.
    “Are you leaving?”
    “Sleep well.”
    “You, too,” he turned his head, eyes capturing hers as she stood to slide the haversack beneath the cot. “Could you . . . would you read to me? Tomorrow?”
    What did tomorrow hold? During the moments she had sat next to Joe, the war outside had given way to a fresh battlefield. One they shared, and yet his last words left her feeling stale and old beyond her years.
    “The Confederates surround us. They’re parked in the fields around us. Everywhere.” Joe had no way of knowing their dire straits, though he would understand the suffering of the soldiers and their mind-set. She softened, wanting . . . something that she didn’t understand. “If tomorrow allows, I will.”
    His eyes hazed over, a spark of anger flashing. “It’s that bad?”
    “It’s a fearful thing.” She picked up the lantern.
    She emerged into the night, Mr. Nisewander’s cranky voice skittering through the eerie quiet.
    “. . . dark cellar with creepy things. I’m staying right here.”
    Beth lifted the chimney and blew out the lantern. Jim sure had his hands full. She heard the black’s voice, injected with a placating note. She paused in the yard and lifted her chin. Darkness blanketed the rolling hills. If the Yankees were there, there was no sign of them, but the soldiers who were brought to them talked of skirmishes, of the battle on top of South Mountain and the Yankees at their heels.
    A volley of shots split the quiet of night. Beth’s heart slammed against her ribs. Lifting her skirts, she hurried up the porch step and into the house, where the only light flickered from deep in the parlor filled with groaning, reaching men. With certainty she knew there would be no room for her after tomorrow. She would lose her bed, her room, her privacy. She returned to the porch. Both Jim and Mr. Nisewander had heard the shots, the older man’s head cocked in such a way as to display his unrelenting attitude. Behind him, Jim just shook his head.
    “Nothing more than a nervous guard with a heavy trigger finger,” the old man groused before turning and tottering toward the front door. He weaved among the men littering the floor and toward the steep staircase. “I’ll sleep sound as the dead.”
    She winced at the baldness of the statement. Jim watched the man go.
    “Does Emma need help?”
    “No, ma’am. Most of the soldiers are sleeping well, except the one . . .” his head tilted toward the parlor room, where the men lay. “It doesn’t look like that one will be with us come morning.” He paused to stretch. “If’n you don’t need me, I think I’ll head down to the barn for the night.”
    “You’d be safer in the cellar.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Makes even a free man worry when there’s so many Graybacks around. Them,” he jerked his head toward the parlor, “I’ve no reason to fear since they’re too banged up to notice the color of my skin, but the awake ones make me worry.”
    “Joe won’t hurt you, Jim. Not if he risked his life to save other blacks.”
    “Then I’ll look after him as well as I do Mr. Nisewander, ma’am.”
    Why did that bit of kindness twist her up so much? “Thank you, Jim.”
    He shouldered by her. Nothing stood in the way of her sleep now except the litany of moans. With heavy heart she climbed the steps, afraid of the darkness. Even more afraid of the light.

11
    September 17, 1862
    The first crash of artillery broke the silence of the early dawn and agitated the wounded men. Emma’s dark eyes rolled with fright as her hand butterflied the hem of her fresh apron. Both Gerta and Emma looked exhausted and Beth doubted either had slept. She knew she had done little but yank the covers up in fear or push them off when she got