Free The Christmas Ball by Susan Macatee

Chapter One
    December 13, 1862
    Sara Brewster lifted the pan of bloodied water and moved on to the next man needing attention. The cots were packed so close together in the large canvas tent, she had a hard time sliding between them. Her trousers, however, proved a godsend. The other women, in gowns and petticoats, had a much more difficult time of it.
    She set her pan on a small table by a soldier. The poor soul moaned in pain. His grimy hair, plastered to his head, made it impossible to detect the color. She removed his coat and vest, grimacing at the blood covering the front of his shirt. Gingerly, so as not to cause undue discomfort, she lifted the shirt and studied the gaping wound. She’d have to get Doc Ellison over here fast. In the meantime, she squeezed out excess moisture from her rag and pressed it against the wound to staunch the freely flowing blood.
    His eyes popped open. When he focused, he rasped, “Am I kilt, son?”
    “Can’t say for sure. Doc will have to take a look.” She studied the soldier’s clean-shaven face blackened with dirt. He was Nathan Combs, a member of her company. “Tell me, how bad is it out there?”
    “Hell,” he sputtered. “The Rebs have the high ground and they just keep firing down on us. And the cold...” He shuddered. “I couldn’t feel much of anything until they brought me in here.”
    “Maybe that was for the best. The cold may have kept you from bleeding to death out on the field. I’ll get the doc so he can take a look.”
    “I much appreciate it, son.” Combs’ eyes glazed over and he turned his face away.
    Sara moved cautiously through the overcrowded tent trying not to jostle wounded patients. Doctor Ellison stood at the back of the tent conferring with a woman nurse, whose honey-colored hair was arranged in a bun at the nape of her neck.
    Miss Marshall turned, light brown eyes drifting over Sara’s form, dismissing her as unworthy of more than a passing appraisal.
    “Doc,” Sara said. “I have a wounded man...gut shot. I think you should have a look.”
    Ellison nodded to the nurse. “I’ll be right back.” He raised a hand. “Lead on, Private.”
    She turned and led him to Combs. As the doctor bent to probe the wound, she studied his handsome face. A dark brown, well-tended beard framed his angular jaw, and the thick, wavy hair touching his collar always seemed to have an errant lock grazing his forehead that she longed to smooth back. His intense hazel eyes set her pulse racing as he examined the man’s wound. How would it feel to have him studying her so intently? She warmed at the thought. Unfortunately, when he glanced at her, all he saw was a boy.
    She’d joined the army disguised as a man by the name of George Brewster. Although she’d spent time on the battlefield, she was now assigned as a hospital steward. Working closely beside Doctor Ellison made her wish she wasn’t in uniform, but dressed in a gown, her curls long and flowing. She’d watched the doctor gaze at a few of the women volunteers appreciatively and often wished he looked at her that way.
    After he completed his examination, Doc turned to Sara, “I need to get that ball out immediately. If you could bring my instruments up here and a clean pan of water, I’ll get started. Thank you for bringing him to my attention, he may have died otherwise.”
    “He’ll be all right?”
    “Can’t say for sure, but at least he’ll have a chance.” Doc Ellison smiled.
    Sara feared she’d swoon. She’d longed to have him smile at her that way, but it didn’t mean a thing so long as he thought her to be a boy. She made her way to the back of the tent, where Miss Marshall sorted instruments.
    “I need to bring those up to Doc.”
    “I’ll do it.” Miss Marshall glanced to the front of the tent where Doc hovered over the patient.
    Sara clenched her fists and scowled. “He ordered me to do it.”
    The nurse smirked. “I wouldn’t want to put you out, Private.”
    “It’s