Page 18 of Christmas at Carnton

“I overheard you say just now, ma’am, that you need to head back to town. I happen to know from an earlier conversation with Captain Jones there”—he motioned to Jones, who stood in the doorway speaking with the black woman—“that’s he’s heading back that way. I’m certain he’d welcome the chance to give you and your boy a ride, if you like.”

“You mean we could ride in a real army wagon?” The boy’s eyes went wide.

Jake smiled. “With real army horses.”

The boy looked up at his mother, who offered a smile she couldn’t quite hold.

“We’d be grateful, Mr. . . .”

“Captain Winston, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Captain Winston. I’m Mrs. Warren Prescott. And this is my son, Andrew.”

Jake gave the boy a salute and smiled when Andrew puffed out his chest and gave one right back.

“I’ll talk to the captain right now. Let him know.” Jake grabbed another crate and spoke with Jones at the house, then returned. “You’re all set, Mrs. Prescott.”

“Thank you, Captain.” But something in her expression had changed, something he couldn’t define. She walked closer, son in hand. “You’re the wounded soldier, the one Mrs. McGavock said was arriving today?”

Jake hesitated. “Yes, ma’am. That’s right.”

Her gaze went to the crates in the wagon bed, then back to him.

“Captain, I have a question to ask you. One that will sound strange, I realize. But if a person was to request your help in building a simple nativity—a booth and a manger—would you be able to lend assistance? To hold the pieces together and such?”

For an instant, he wondered if the woman was here by Colonel Stratton’s design, a spy, of sorts, to see if he was truly going to rest like the doctor ordered. Then he smiled, realizing she had to be asking for her son’s sake. Maybe the boy wanted to build a nativity for under the Christmas tree. “Yes, ma’am. I reckon I could do that.”

A smile the likes of which he hadn’t seen in far too long swept her face, and her eyes glistened. “Thank you, Captain.” She whispered something to her boy, then looked back. “Would you mind if Andrew waited here with you for a moment while I go back inside? I won’t be long.”

“Take your time, Mrs. Prescott. Your son looks pretty strong there. I’m betting he could help us carry some crates.”

The boy’s eyes lit as he ran over. Jake hefted another crate and Andrew followed along, pushing up on the bottom from beneath, his slender jaw firming with the effort.

True to her word, Mrs. Prescott returned minutes later just as he and Andrew returned from unloading the last crate. If Jake hadn’t known better, he might’ve thought she wanted to hug him.

“Thank you again, Captain Winston, for agreeing to help me. This means a great deal to me. And to Andrew as well.”

Jake nodded. She was a delicate-looking woman. And pretty, with dark hair and eyes so deep a blue that, close up, they looked almost violet. And she was most decidedly with child, now that he got a closer look. And married. Mrs. Warren Prescott, she’d made a point of saying. Lucky man, that Warren Prescott.

“You’re welcome, ma’am. I should be here for a few days, so just let me know when you need the help.”

“Oh, I will, Captain. I will.”

He assisted her into the wagon, the feel of her hand soft and silky in his. Even after letting go of her, her lingering warmth stayed with him, as did her indescribable sense of womanliness that threatened to rob him of thought even as it brought him to attention. He lifted Andrew up beside her and the boy settled himself between her and the captain. Jake walked as far as the front porch before he turned to watch the wagon as it disappeared in the swirl of wind and snow.

CHAPTER 7

Jake stood to one side in the entrance hall as a delegation of women left the house in a flurry of conversation about a coming winter storm, an intense loathing of having to miss someone’s potato soup, and someone’s displeasure over the lack of bread pudding. And again he wished he could thank Colonel Stratton for assigning him to this event.

He took in the niceties of the entrance hall—the expensive-looking cream and black diamond floorcloth, carpeted staircase, a handsome archway that accented the space, and the papered walls. Definitely a family of means, even in the midst of a war. At last, his hostess—whom he’d met only briefly before the mass exodus—rejoined him.

He again offered a slight bow. “Mrs. Colonel John McGavock . . . I take it that was the Women’s Relief Society?”

“Oh gracious no, Captain Winston. That’s only the committee. There are well over two hundred of us in the society.”

Colonel Stratton’s smirk came so clearly to his mind.

“And all of us, but especially the committee, are most appreciative to General Bragg for his willingness to lend your services to our event. We seek to raise money for the cause, of course. But also, and perhaps even more importantly, we seek to raise the spirits of the men who are fighting, as well as those of their families who wait most earnestly for their return.”