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

too hot. A miserable night. Fear permeated everything; even the air seemed laden with a sickening sour smell. Maybe it was the scent of the unclean bodies mixed with blood.
    Jim appeared, wide-eyed with concern over the barrage of bullets and shells that beat the air full of holes every second. “Didn’t take much to move Mister from the guest room to the cellar.”
    The statement would have been humorous if it hadn’t so accurately defined the danger. Beth swallowed. More shells, in a deafening, consistent onslaught that vibrated the walls.
    Gerta rushed inside carrying a bucket of water.
    Jim darted forward. “Let me take that.”
    “Get these men moved to the back room, Jim. They’re clean. We’re going to have an epidemic on our hands if more are brought in and they’re as dirty as these.” Her petite formtwisted to gaze over her shoulder at the writhing, moaning men before she faced Beth and Jim again. Her lips compressed into a tight, thin line. “We lost Shem in the night.”
    The two shared a glance and Beth understood the silent message between them. She had seen the large earthen hole from her bedroom window. Jim must have worked on the grave throughout the night, yet he showed no signs of weariness.
    Jim nodded at Gerta and splashed his bucket of water into the kettle over the fire. “More water?”
    “That, too,” Gerta acknowledged, the high color on her cheeks giving away her level of stress.
    Beth stepped into the parlor, noting the relative stillness of the men in the silver gray of dawn. Only an occasional moan punched the air. Then there was the still form in the corner, the bandage on his head bloody, the wood planking beneath him saturated in blood. Shem looked peaceful. A tremor vibrated deep down inside of Beth, a quivering that never completely left as she helped where she could throughout the morning.
    Shells and gunfire exploded. Screams punched the air from both the injured brought to them and those outside. Another shell beat at their house, hitting close enough to rock the floor. Emma screamed, and the men joined her chorus, some trying to rise, others only groaning their terror. Beth covered her ears and shrank back against the wall, feeling it shudder. Smoke and dust rose in a cloud.
    “Get into the cellar,” Gerta yelled at her.
    Beth and Emma exchanged glances, each knowing the other could not abandon the elderly woman.
    Beth spoke first. “You can’t do this yourself.”
    Gerta’s blue eyes held hers. “You’re not afraid?”
    She was terrified, expecting any minute to be her last. But her vulnerability didn’t match that of the men in their care. “I’m staying.”
    “Check on Jim. He’s digging another hole.”
    There was no time to think, only to act. Another shell screamed and landed, piercing her ears until she couldn’t hear her feet on the wooden planks of the porch as she hurried down the step. No time to consider the danger that being outdoors posed. The black man worked fast, muscles straining as he plunged the shovel deep into the earth, stomped it down deep with his big feet, and pulled a shovelful of the rich soil from the ground. As soon as he saw her coming, he motioned her away.
    “Don’t need nothing. Get on inside.” He stilled, eyes flicking down the road. “ ’Nother wagon coming.”
    It meant more wounded. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the sounds raged on. Beth kept moving, indicating places to put more men, afraid being still would awaken her to what movement muffled. A Confederate surgeon’s assistant arrived and began sorting the men based on the severity of their wounds. He commandeered the dining table and set up a makeshift operating table in the open air.
    A woman ran down the street, hair flying behind her, under each arm a sack leaking grain as she ran. Two little boys yanked the hand of an even smaller girl trailing behind them, her legs stretching to meet the pace, their faces showing their panic.
    The urge to join them