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

tempted Beth. She couldn’t think about it or she would do it. She was needed. Jim loomed in front of her. “Get on with ya, Missy. Send Emma on out to help.”
    She swallowed. Dust floated through the air like a fog and settled a dry layer in her throat. She coughed and lunged for the house just as another wagon stopped. Stretcher bearers passed her en route to the house, droplets of blood marking their grim paths. She lifted her skirts to free her feet.
    A maelstrom of activity greeted her. More groaning, one man screaming at the top of his lungs. Confederate men nodded to her as they passed. One planted himself right in front of her.
    “Best place for you, ma’am, is far away from here.” His drawl was pronounced, covering each word with warm syrup. His eyes were kind, his countenance gim.
    “I live here. I want to help.”
    “The South?”
    “Side makes no difference. They are all men needing someone.”
    The man stared at her with a bittersweet expression that seemed out of place. “Then we welcome your bravery and thank you for your sacrifice.”
    “I make it for the Union as well.”
    The man nodded. “I understand.”
    She scrambled inside in time to see Gerta dipping out more hot water. “Bandages. Anything you can find. Blankets, linens, dresses . . .”
    She ran up the steps and pulled down her skirts and snapped the folds out of her best nightgowns, forcing herself not to think. Emma stopped at the doorway with an armful of men’s clothes. Beth’s grandfather’s, probably stored in the attic.
    “I’m leaving these here. There’s more. She wants them ripped up too.”
    A shell boomed and the side of the house rocked. Emma threw the clothes into the air and immediately broke into tears.
    “Make it stop. God, make it stop!”
    Beth knelt in front of the woman, her own tears breaking the surface. Another hit and the window shattered, shards tinkling over the spot she’d just vacated. Smoke billowed into the room.
    “Fire. There’s fire!” Emma surged to her feet. Beth grabbed her hand and held it firm, but Emma yanked free and bolted out of the room.

    Air leached from Joe’s throat as he pushed himself upright. At least the old man’s ranting about Rebels and “seceshers” had died down with the last blast. The words had rained down on him most of the morning, rising in their vileness when the blasting was at its worst, lessening as the battle seemed to fade and the man’s voice cracked with the strain.
    He’d been quiet for too long now and Joe determined to make sure he wasn’t harmed. It was semidark, the low light of the flickering candle Jim had lit unable to reach the width and depth of the cellar. Joe squinted, careful not to stare directly into the flame, but beyond it toward the last place he’d heard the sound of the man’s voice. The man was there, slumped in a chair. Joe debated going to him, but his ears still burned with the hateful words against the South that mirrored his hatred for the North. But the man was still, too still.
    Joe struggled to a sitting position. He’d not seen Beth all morning and he wondered, even hoped, that she had left for shelter far away from the frenetic chaos of war. He heard enough tramping around above his head to know many more occupied the house than had the previous day. The fury of the battle was only slightly muffled by the cellar. He felt trapped in the hole, afraid to be in the thick of the battle but equally afraid to flee and brand himself a coward. A continuous rattle of gunfire and screams rocked and shook the house. Pebbles of dirt and dust filled the room until his lungs felt clogged with the debris. Men moaned and screamed above him. Joe used his sleeve to wipe beads of sweat from his brow.
    He squeezed his eyes shut, his chest tight with anxiety. Any minute, and the house could crash down around him. He forced his mind to other things. He inhaled slowly, feeling like his mind would splinter in a thousand different