Free Triumph by Heather Graham Page B

varmints aplenty out here, Miss Tia.”
    “I’m sure he’ll untie himself. I can only pray that it will take him time.”
    “But how will we divert him?”
    “I don’t know yet!” she admitted, exasperated. “Be ready for my signal. When you get the chance, warn Jemmy and Trey.”
    “Miss Tia, we can move Hadley now; but if we were to try to move Stuart, I’m afraid the bleeding would start up again.”
    “Have we got any food on us?”
    “What?”
    “Food, Private, food. To eat!”
    Gilly shook his head. “First you want me to shoot him down. Now you want to invite him to dinner, Miss Tia?”
    She sighed, losing her patience. She was dealing with children here! Children already shot up in the defense of their native state, she reminded herself.
    “I’m simply trying to buy time.”
    “We’ve spent a lot of time out here already,” Gilly commented, “is the poultice done?”
    She looked down where she had been busy mashing mushrooms and moss together. It was amazing to see how mechanical her actions had become. The war had so inured her that she could function without thinking. She didn’t know if that was good or bad.
    Moss and mushrooms were now one pulpy mass, ready to be applied, and bandaged onto the wounded limb.
    “Let’s go in. And yes, we’re inviting him to dinner. We’re buying time.”
    Tia brought the poultice in; Gilly followed behind her. In the cabin, the Yankee was busy with Trey and Jemmy, seeing to the comfort and well-being of their other wounded man, Hadley Blake. The Yank had carried a small bottle of some kind of liquor in his frockcoat pocket. He was in the process of bathing Hadley’s wound, this one in the lower arm.
    Though he didn’t turn around, Tia knew that he was instantly aware that they had returned. His eyes were fixed on the wound. “Your brother is one hell of a surgeon, all right—if he’s the one who worked on this boy.”
    “He is.”
    “This arm should have been lost.”
    “He’s excellent at saving limbs,” she murmured, and she couldn’t quite keep the pride from her voice.
    The Yank stood. “The poultice?”
    “Here.”
    “Go ahead. Tend to the other boy. I’m sure you know your business.”
    She stared at him, then walked on over to the worktable where Stuart lay, twitching restlessly now and then.
    The boy was very young. Perhaps only fifteen or sixteen. The youngest of this sad little band, she thought, though he had certainly lied his way into the militia. She smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “Help me, Trey.”
    Trey came to her side.
    “Think a splash of that whiskey would do well here?” she asked the Yank.
    “Indeed.” He stepped forward, bathing her fresh stitchery. Stuart Adair groaned and twitched again. Already, though, his face had more color.
    Whiskey often seemed to be the best cleanser they had. Julian had commented that the wounds cleaned with whiskey often seemed to heal the best as well. She dabbed the wound dry, quickly and expertly applied the poultice, then bandaged the leg neatly.
    “There’s the remains of an old straw bed over there; let’s get him on it,” the Yank said.
    With tremendous care, they moved the wounded boy. When both the injured lay in deep sleep, Trey asked, “Think they’ll make it?”
    “Half of it is in the spirit, boy,” the Yank said. “Yes, I think they’ll make it.”
    “How about joining us for some hardtack stew?” Gilly suggested. “Yank, you are most welcome to anything we’ve got.”
    “Well, you can melt down some hardtack with that clean brook water—I’ll pick out the maggots. And maybe I can come up with something a bit better. Give me what’s left of that broomstick, son.”
    Gilly found the broken broomstick and handed it to the Yank. He exited the cabin, not seeming to care that his back was to them. And yet it wasn’t the right time to strike—Tia knew it. She shrugged to Trey, and followed him out.
    The Yankee walked down to the brook. He stood