Page 28 of Christmas at Carnton

“So you’ve lived here in Franklin all your life?” he asked as he moved the final board, measured and marked, back onto the stack.

She nodded.

“No siblings?”

“I was the only child born to my parents. What about you? Any brothers or sisters?”

Jake paused, fingering a callus on his palm. “I had a younger brother, Freddie. But . . . he died at Vicksburg.”

She stared at him, her gaze glistening in the glow of the oil lamp. “I’m so sorry, Captain Winston. My husband, Warren, wrote to me about what happened there. In far greater detail than I’d read about in the newspapers.” She briefly closed her eyes, her brow furrowing. “The images his letters conjured haunt me even now. I cannot fathom how . . .”

Her voice faded and a barrage of all too painful memories rushed in to fill the silence. For them both, Jake wagered by her expression. With no small effort, he concentrated on recalling Freddie’s smile, the way his brother used to laugh and poke fun every chance he got.

“I wish,” she whispered, her voice unsteady, “I wish I knew how my husband died.” Slowly, she lifted her gaze. “All the letter said was that he’d been killed in battle, and that the army would inform me of the details as they learned them. If they learned them.”

Jake studied her features in the flame’s amber glow, wishing he could offer her more hope. But he’d walked the aftermath of war, and knew better.

She turned and began gathering the tools she’d used into a worn leather pouch. “I’ve forgotten how much closer I feel to my father when I have a hand plane or chisel in my grip.”

“Those were his,” Jake said softly.

She nodded. “Except for the mallet. Andrew and I gave that to Warren for Christmas three years ago.” Reminiscence softened her smile as she fingered the mallet’s red handle. “I’d told Andrew we were shopping for Papa, and when Andrew saw the mallet in the mercantile that day, he was convinced this was what we should get.”

“Andrew’s a fine boy, Mrs. Prescott. You’ve done well by him.” Jake sought and held her gaze. “You both did, ma’am.”

The light in her eyes warmed him where he stood.

“Are . . . you married, Captain Winston?”

The question was so unexpected, Jake had to smile. “No, ma’am. I’m not. And never have been.”

She nodded and returned to her task. Once everything was put away, he walked with her back to the house, insisting she keep his coat around her shoulders.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you out of uniform, Captain.”

He glanced down at his shirt and dungarees. “You planning on turning me in?”

She acted as though she were weighing that possibility. “Probably not just yet. I might need your help again sometime soon.”

He laughed, then offered a bow. “Well, if you do need my help, ma’am, please know in advance that you will always have it.”

She smiled up at him, her precise expression inscrutable in the shadows, and Jake found his gaze drawn to the inviting curve of her lips. His thoughts swiftly took a more intimate turn as his imagination led him down a path he knew was best left untrod. And it didn’t help his resolve when she didn’t look away. He reached up and fingered a loose curl at her temple and heard her breath quicken. He leaned closer, cupping the side of her face, all but able to taste her kiss and the softness of her lips.

“Captain Winston, I—” She took a hasty step backward, her breath coming hard. “I’d best be getting inside. It’s late, after all.”

The fullness of the moment and of what he’d been about to do hit him brick hard. “Mrs. Prescott—” Jake winced. “Please. Forgive me, ma’am. I—”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Captain.” Her smile was brief and unconvincing. “Good night.”

Far more hastily than he would’ve liked, she slipped in through the kitchen door and closed it behind her. Wishing he could recall the last moment and do it differently, he strode back to his cabin.

It wasn’t until later that evening, flipping through his sketchbook, that he realized just how much of his thoughts this woman occupied. Just as she did the pages of his notebook. More than was wise, he knew, given his circumstances. And hers.

CHAPTER 10

“Let’s go kill us some hogs!” Winder yelled, waving a make-believe sword in his hand. Andrew quickly joined in and both boys raced like the wind toward the field adjacent to the barn. Early morning fog still blanketed the winter grasses and clung to the evergreens on the hills, giving the estate a somewhat ethereal feel.

“Andrew, slow down!” Aletta called, pulling her shawl closer about her shoulders and waiting for Tempy to join her. “And be careful!”