Free Rachel's Choice by Judith French Page A

probably should shampoo your hair with turpentine. I didn’t notice any nits when I nursed you, but you may have crawlies.”
    â€œI don’t have lice!”
    She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I suppose you’d know if you had an infestation, but I’ll have no vermin in my house.”
    â€œI assure you, ma’am,” he replied with icy formality, “I’d be the first to know. The lice are so big on Pea Patch Island that the prisoners toss them into the soup to add meat.”
    He felt his bowels twist as he remembered the thingruel of potato skins and the wormy bread that the Union army considered decent rations. “The truth is, the boys up there are surviving on rats and rotten bacon.”
    Rachel’s brown eyes dilated with compassion. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’ve heard stories about the deaths, but we assumed that disease—”
    â€œHundreds,” he said flatly. “Thousands. No one knows for certain. There is no medical care, no decent shelters for the sick, no clean water. The island reeks of the dead. The Yanks stack the corpses like firewood and row them across to the Jersey shore to bury in mass graves.”
    She paled. “It’s why they call it war, isn’t it? Men die.”
    â€œThey die,” he repeated. “When they’re starved and left in the rain without proper shelter or their wounds are allowed to fester. They die when they drink water that horses have—”
    â€œEnough,” she cried. “You’ve made your point.” She nibbled at her lower lip. “I … I’m sorry if I seemed uncaring. I’m not so hard-hearted to wish anyone to suffer so.” Her eyes flashed as she delivered a parting shot. “Even if you Confederates do as much or worse to our men at Andersonville.”
    â€œIt seems there is enough callousness for both sides.”
    She blanched. “It does trouble me to think that any here in Delaware could be so cruel to any human being, rebs or not.”
    Cruelty isn’t strong enough, he thought. Depravity and madness, perhaps. “I assure you that if I had any bluebacks, they’ve all drowned in the salt waters of the bay.”
    She raised a dark eyebrow questioningly.
    â€œLice. The Yanks call them gray-backs, and we return the favor. Pea Patch is alive with bugs, mosquitoes, greenhead flies, lice—”
    â€œNo more, please,” she protested.
    â€œI rest my case.”
    Rachel folded her arms over her stomach. “You are the darndest man for words I’ve ever laid eyes on. You could talk the comb off a banty rooster.”
    Chance turned and headed toward the door. He could almost swear his head was itching, but he refused to scratch. A man had to keep some dignity about him, even if he had to suffer for it.
    Rachel sank into a chair. Her back was aching, and she felt all hollow inside. What was it about Chance Chancellor that made her tongue as thick as a butter paddle?
    â€œI’ve been too long alone,” she whispered to the orange tabby curled on a window seat.
    What was she thinking to allow herself to be so free and easy with this stranger who had invaded her home?
    She rose and took her broom from the corner and began to briskly sweep up biscuit crumbs. Work had always filled her days as thoughts of her coming child eased the uncertainty of her future.
    She had to admit to herself that if Chance had been anyone but a rebel soldier, she might have welcomed his friendship. But only a foolish woman would forget why he was here and what he represented.
    In Richmond, before the war, a gentleman such as Chancellor would have considered himself far above her in class and situation. He was educated, probably wealthy, and no doubt had a wife and children at home.
    Still, she hadn’t mistaken that look in his eye when she’d let him touch her belly. Even a country wench with eight years of formal