Free Her Hesitant Heart by Carla Kelly Page A

warehouse.
    “True. I can control a classroom,” she assured him. She ducked her head against the wind that roared down the parade ground, and staggered with the force of it.
    He steadied her automatically. “Some ladies inthe regiment sew lead shot into their hems, to keep the wind from, well, doing what it does to skirts,” he told her.
    “I’ll remember that.”
    As they walked toward the hospital, the bugler in front of the guardhouse played recall from fatigue, or tried to play it, considering that the wind grabbed the notes and hurtled them toward Omaha as soon as he blew them.
    “Soldiers have been known to commit suicide from too much wind,” he commented, then could have smacked himself.
Do I not remember a single bit of idle chatter?
he asked himself.
    “One can scarcely blame them,” Mrs. Hopkins said. “Now, sir, Nick Martin.”
    “Let us call him a deterrent,” Joe said as they struggled toward the hospital. “Some of your scholars have been running wild for years. They will not take kindly to a classroom. Sit Nick in the back row and you will have a most efficient monitor.”
    “Has he nothing better to do?”
    “Probably not. None of us know much about him,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the wind.
    “He’s not a soldier?”
    “I don’t really know. No garrison has declared him missing.” Joe chuckled. “Of course, there are company captains who would wish some of their worst miscreants to go missing.”
    She gave him a long look. “You are being inscrutable, Major Randolph.”
    “It’s all I can be. Nick showed up one hot August, rail-thin and full of lice. The adjutant brought him to me, and I cleaned him up.” He took a chance and put his arm around her as the wind strengthened. “He informed me that he was Saint Paul. Nick, not the adjutant.”
    Joe smiled as her jaw dropped. “I would never lie to you, Mrs. Hopkins. I have no idea what his real name is.”
    “Then why …”
    “… is he Nick Martin? Jim O’Leary named him after the worst malcontent in his regiment during the Civil War.” Joe shrugged. “It seemed as good a name as any. Nick answers to it when he feels like it, or to Saint Paul.”
    “He’s harmless?”
    “Completely,” Joe assured her.
    Mrs. Hopkins hurried along beside him, holding her dress down with both hands. In a few more minutes, they were in his hospital.
    Joe looked around with pleasure. The building was only two years old, and had replaced a disgraceful structure that may have caused more illness than it ever cured. He probably sounded like his long-dead mother when he ushered her inside, apologizing for the odor of ether and carbolic.
    “Hospitals are supposed to smell this way,” Mrs. Hopkins said, cutting through his commentary, a practical woman.
    He laughed, which brought Nick Martin into the hall. Joe knew Nick generally lurked there, waitingfor him to return so he could help him off with his overcoat, but he had surprised Mrs. Hopkins, who stepped back.
    Trying to look at Nick Martin through her eyes—or the Apostle Paul, depending on his moods—Joe could understand her fright. Nick seemed to think long hair was a requirement, and he was taller than most mortals.
    The only way to find out whether Nick was an apostle was to ask, but that seemed a little crass. “Nick, this is Mrs. Susanna Hopkins,” Joe said, when she had recovered.
    “The Lord bless and keep you, Mrs. Hopkins. I know He has preserved me on my many missionary journeys,” Nick said.
    “Saint Paul, he has certainly saved you from shipwrecks,” Mrs. Hopkins replied. She held out her hand and Nick shook it.
    “I hear that Major Randolph plans for you to sit in my classroom and keep order,” she told the tall man.
    “As long as it doesn’t interfere with those missionary journeys,” Nick told her. He nodded to Joe. “I must return to my duties. The church at Corinth is particularly fractious.” He left them in the hallway.
    “My goodness,”