Free Glory by Heather Graham

the door.”
    “How’s our patient?” he asked, quickly regarding Paddy.
    “Doing fine, sir.”
    “I’ll see to him quickly.”
    He dropped the towel, reaching for his breeches, and stepped into them. Shoeless, shirtless, he sped down the stairs and into the room where he had treated Paddy.
    Paddy was up. He had been given a fresh white shirt and a torn pair of clean breeches to wear. Rachel was busy re-bandaging his thigh.
    “I’ll take a quick look,” he said gruffly.
    Rachel stepped back. The wound was clean, there was no bleeding. His stitches were small and tight. Paddy would do all right; he was going to have to.
    “I can ride like the wind, and you know that’s true, sir,” Paddy said.
    “You’ll have to take care—”
    “I will. And River can help patch me with his Seminole magic if there’s bleeding again.”
    “Get to camp, and for God’s sake, get to bed and stay there,” Julian ordered, working deftly to pack the wound so that the stitches wouldn’t split.
    “Aye, sir.”
    “I’ll finish the bandaging, doctor, sir,” Rachel said. “He’s healing fine. You sew better than a seamstress.”
    “Thank you, Rachel,” Julian said. “This is very kind. You know that we’re—”
    “Rebs. Yes, sir. You’d best get moving.”
    Corporal Lyle was behind him. He turned, giving orders quickly. “Tell River, Thad, and Ben to get Paddy and move inland before heading south. River will know the old Seminole trails, and I’m willing to bet the Yanks coming after us are from Ohio or Michigan or some such place. The rest of us will take a southeastward trail, keep them following us, and give you a better chance to escape more slowly with Paddy.”
    “Yessir.”
    “Get moving, then.”
    He left the room, hurrying back upstairs and looking out the large bay window above the breezeway hall to ascertain the position of the Yankees. They had ten minutes at best. He hurried on to the bedroom to finish dressing. Once there, he snatched up the rest of his clothing. As he slipped into his shirt, he stared at the doorway between the two rooms. His Colt remained in her room, dropped at the foot of her bed where he had left it last night. He stumbled into his boots then strode quickly to the door. With the bolt gone, a touch of his palm threw the door quietly open. Maybe he wouldn’t even awaken her, and then he wouldn’t be so tempted to throttle her.
    But she wasn’t sleeping. She had just risen, awakened, perhaps, by the sound of the riders. Tall, lithe, her hair a wild, tousled ebony cloak, she appeared ethereal, and still so breathtakingly beautiful that he paused. She stood near the bed, ashen, confused, far more disoriented than he, he realized—yet staring down at his Colt where he had cast it the night before and trying to determine her chances of reaching it.
    And using it?
    It suddenly infuriated him anew that she should be so careless with her life. She’d reported them—casting herself into danger should battle erupt in her house, and yet she had been so certain that they would be easily swept away that she had dared douse herself with drugs and wine.
    And now, it seemed she was so determined on their capture that she would draw his own gun against him. He had no desire to discover just how ardent a Yank she was. He walked quickly across the room. She saw him, saw his face, and suddenly made a dive for his weapon. She reached out, fingers grasping, but he was there too quickly, catching her by the length of her hair. She cried out, jerked back, but he loosed her instantly. He reached for his Colt, sliding it into his holster.
    “A Colt-carrying doctor!” she exclaimed. “What a wondrous physician, so concerned with life!”
    “I am concerned with life. At the moment I’m concerned with my own.”
    “No one intends to kill you—”
    “Then what did you intend with my Colt?”
    “To—waylay you.”
    “Why? Because troops are on the way to capture us?”
    She was motionless for a