My Dearest Enemy Read online

  The door creaked open, and Emmett’s chest clenched when he saw the barrel of a musket poke through the opening.

  A young woman entered, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or more afraid as she pointed the weapon at him. Did she have any idea how to use that old gun? He squinted, trying to make out her features in the gloom.

  “Oh, you’re awake,” she said, and he couldn’t tell whether her voice sounded surprised or relieved. The woman kept her distance, moving closer as she studied the bindings on his wrists, but not coming too close. Then, apparently confident that Emmett was still restrained, her demeanor relaxed. She leaned the musket against the wall near the door and brought in a lantern and a basket.

  When the lantern light illuminated her, Emmett wondered for a moment if he was hallucinating. She was probably close to twenty years of age—making her around seven years his junior—and though he may later blame his opinion on blood loss addling his mind and giving the whole experience a dreamlike quality, he thought her unbelievably lovely. Her skin was a creamy white with a bit of pink on her nose and cheeks from the cold. Dark hair and dark eyes surrounded by long lashes contrasted against her skin in a way that was striking without being stark. He couldn’t help but stare. Who was this woman? And what in the world was happening?

  She moved toward him, crouching down and setting the lantern on the ground. “And your eyes are blue. I wondered—” She stopped talking, her cheeks turning pink as if she’d not meant to give voice to her thoughts. Clearing her throat, she adopted a more businesslike demeanor. “How do you feel, Captain?”

  Though his officer training had included withstanding interrogation, negotiating with the enemy, and other procedures to follow if one was taken prisoner, nothing could have possibly prepared him for this scenario. He did not know how to respond.

  At his silence, she wrinkled her brow. “Well, I imagine your injuries are still painful, and your head probably aches. You did lose quite a lot of blood.” She squinted, peering closer at him. “It is normal to experience confusion. Not to worry, it will pass.”

  Confusion. That was putting it mildly. “Miss, am I your prisoner?”

  “I prefer ‘patient.’ But yes, I suppose you are.” She looked through the basket, drawing out some items. “I need to change your wrappings, if you don’t mind.”

  “By all means.”

  She hesitated, and he saw a look of apprehension narrow her eyes and tighten the skin around her mouth. “I warn you not to try anything . . . malicious, sir. I am very adept with the musket.”

  “I would not dream of it, Miss . . . ?” He spoke the word as a question. Almost as much as his body needed healing, he needed information. If he could get her speaking, he might learn something useful; perhaps even discover a way to escape. It was imperative that he return to his men.

  “Abigail Tidwell.” She stood to give a small curtsy then knelt beside him, using scissors to cut the bandages from his arm. When she peeled away the wrappings, Emmett craned his neck to see the injury. The wound was close to three inches long and held together with sutures. He watched as she gently touched her fingertips to the gash and the area surrounding it and even leaned close to sniff it.

  “How long have I been here?” he asked.

  She didn’t look up from her inspection. “I found you last night. It is nearly night again.”

  An entire day. The urgency returned. His men needed him. If they survived the attack, they could be wounded; at the very least, they were in hostile territory without a leader.

  “The skin is red, but not overly so, and it does not feel hot, nor is there any discharge. It is healing nicely,” she said, giving an encouraging smile. Then she reached for fresh bandages to rewrap it.

  “Are you a doctor?” He meant the words to be teasing; of course a woman wasn’t a doctor. The very idea was preposterous. But perhaps charm would work on this one, soften her defenses, and ease her fears about him.

  “My father is a physician-surgeon, and I assist him.”

  The answer was a surprise. “And did he stitch my wound?” One thing he had encountered often during his career as a soldier was stitches, both on his own body and others’, and he considered himself a sufficient authority on well-administered sutures. These were some of the best he’d seen.

  “No. I did that.” She tied off the bandage and then stopped, glancing up at him; her demeanor had suddenly turned less certain. He wondered at the reaction. Was she seeking his approval for a well-treated wound? He didn’t imagine so. More likely she was worried that he did not believe she truly was the one to mend it.

  “Where is your father now?”

  The apprehensive expression remained on her face. “In the house. He should be here any moment.” She turned back to the basket as she spoke, and he knew immediately that she was lying.

  Now Emmett understood the reason for her worry. She was alone. After all, why would a doctor leave his daughter to tend to a patient when he was simply “in the house”? And there was also the matter of his restraints. They were the work of a person who was worried she might be overpowered. He kept his teasing expression. He could always count on winning a woman over with his flirting. He wasn’t proud of it, but the skill had come in useful a time or two. “And does your father tie up all his patients?”

  “No, of course not, but you are American. A person can’t be too careful with an enemy soldier.”

  “I see.” He smirked.

  She still looked nervous, and he realized his charms weren’t having the desired effect. Didn’t she notice the roguish flick of his brow? Probably not. She was rather focused on his injuries.

  “And are these socks, Miss Tidwell?” He wiggled his hands in their bindings, and colorful socks flopped back and forth off the tips of his fingers.

  She gave a small nod. “I thought your hands might get cold.”

  “Blue and yellow stripes?”

  “They were my grandmother’s. She was nearly blind, so I would use the brightest yarn I could find to make her socks. She liked to see them.”

  He couldn’t help but smile at the image of an old woman wearing the outrageously colored stockings. “And am I wearing Grandmother’s hat, too?”

  “My brother’s.” She pulled back the quilts to expose his other wound. The cocoon of warmth that had surrounded him was invaded by a burst of cold, and he shivered. But the invasion of chilly air brought with it another realization. Nearly all of his clothes had been removed. All that remained were his drawers.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, cutting the strips that bound his torso. “This one is much deeper. It will be tender.” She brought the lantern even closer and laid her head nearly on the ground as she inspected the wound on his side.

  “Miss Tidwell, where are my clothes?” He maintained a teasing tone, pretending to be shocked.

  “They had to be removed to tend your wounds.”

  “Even the trousers?”

  Red covered her cheeks and neck as she poked at his wound.

  She was right––it was much more tender. Emmett sucked in a breath.

  “They were wet, and you can’t get warm in wet clothes. I needed to check your feet for frost burn, anyway.” She rose to a kneeling position and set the backs of her fingers on the area around the wound, apparently checking his skin’s temperature.

  Her face, if possible, went even redder. Emmett laughed at her discomfort. And now he knew with utter certainty that she was alone.

  She squinted and pointed at his side. “I know you cannot see it, but here is where the arrowhead was lodged. The wound is healing nicely, and there is no discharge.” After a moment longer, Abigail retrieved fresh bandages, and he lifted up as well as he could while she reached under his back and across his torso a few times to fix the wrappings. “I saved the arrowhead for you, Captain Prescott,” she said, pulling a sharp, triangular stone from her apron pocket.

  “Why would you do that?”

  She looked taken aback by the
question, and rather offended. “I thought you might find it interesting. It’s made from obsidian and has a rather unusual green tint.”

  “And how did you know my name?”

  She glanced quickly toward his jacket.

  “I imagine that you learned it from the letters in my coat.” When she looked back, he held her gaze. “And you must have found the pouch of curious rocks in my pocket and assumed I’d want to add the arrowhead to the collection. I’m afraid you gave yourself away. You, Miss Tidwell, are a snoop.”

  She scowled and stood, tossing aside the arrowhead. Apparently teasing was not the way into this woman’s favor. “Well, I had to know the character of the man in my barn, didn’t I?”

  “And what of your character, Miss Tidwell?” Emmett was growing tired of being polite. This was a matter of life or death, not a time for a young woman to play at doctor. There was a war happening this very moment, and he needed to return to his command. Though the position was excruciating, he shifted to the side to rest on one elbow. He was tired of Abigail Tidwell standing over him while he lay flat on his back, incapacitated. As if she were in charge here. He was a captain in the United States Army, for heaven’s sake. “What kind of person ties up a bleeding man?” His voice came out angrier than he’d intended.

  Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “A person who is trying to save his life, thank you very much. And speaking of such, a little gratitude would be nice, but I suppose those common courtesies aren’t of importance to cursed Americans.” She snatched up the lantern and started toward the barn door, but then paused. She stood for a moment as Emmett blinked, momentarily shocked by her use of profanity. He’d certainly not charmed her.

  She sighed and returned, fetching a cup and a teapot from the basket. “You need to drink.”

  She spoke as if giving him tea was the last thing she wanted to do, but she continued to tend him out of a sense of duty. Emmett held back a smile at the young woman’s petulance. Duty was something he understood. She had a stubborn streak and was apparently used to getting her way, but he could see compassion overrode even her pride. Perhaps this failing was something he could use to his advantage. In time, her concern might prove useful. He must be patient, then, and above all not frighten her.

  “I apologize,” he said. “I suppose being injured hasn’t improved my temper.”

  She knelt beside him and poured the tea, holding the cup as he took a sip.

  Emmett grimaced. It tasted terrible.

  “I know the flavor is bitter, but it helps with the pain.” All traces of stubbornness were gone, and Abigail spoke in a gentler tone. “And you must sleep in order to heal.”

  “I do appreciate your excellent care,” Emmett said. He could feel the ingredients in the tea beginning to take effect as his body grew heavy and his mind grew light. Laudanum, if he wasn’t mistaken. A luxury seldom given to soldiers.

  “Tomorrow I’ll bring something to eat,” she said, her voice sounding far away.

  Emmett could feel his hold on awareness slipping away, and his final impressions were of his head being laid softly on a pillow and a quilt tucked around him.

  Chapter 3

  As Abigail went about her chores the next morning, Captain Prescott was never far from her mind. She was curious about him, which was to be expected. He was a stranger, after all. But in the time he’d been under her care, she’d peeked into the barn to check on him more often than necessary and knew she was being silly. Perhaps she could blame her excessive attentiveness on the lonely winter. Father and Isaac had been gone for months, and since the first snowfall, she’d ventured into town a very few times; usually only when she’d been sent for to assist with a birth. Most of the town didn’t call for her when a resident took ill, not without her father. But occasionally she’d tended to a minor injury. She’d hardly even been able to go to church with the roads iced and buried in snow.

  Her only visitor was Mr. Kirby when he came a few times a week with his sleigh to pick up the milk. And the older man wasn’t much for conversation. Living more than a mile outside the small town had its drawbacks, so naturally she was glad to have someone to talk to, even if that someone was an American soldier who thought himself charming.

  Once she’d dressed and set the kettle over the fire, she prepared a simple soup. Something to give her patient nutrition but not upset his stomach while he was still mending.

  Abigail felt a rush of nerves as she packed bread and more bandages and medicines into the basket. What would Captain Prescott say today?

  She couldn’t help but wonder about the soldier’s life. He spoke as a gentleman; obviously he was educated. And she liked the intonation to his speech. The blacksmith’s wife, Mrs. Elliott, from South Carolina, spoke similarly. Both pronounced their words a bit differently, farther back in their mouths, it seemed. And the vowels were drawn out. Captain Prescott must be from the southern states, she reasoned. And she didn’t like that at all. She knew what kind of people lived in the southern part of America. Wealthy landowners who profited off the labor of slaves. The very idea disgusted her. She’d heard tales of the cruelties of slave owners and considered anyone who could treat another soul with such brutality to be the worst type of creature. Nothing in Captain Prescott’s letters had mentioned slavery, but she didn’t consider that sufficient exoneration.

  She threw on her cloak and stepped out into the frigid morning, wishing winter would end so she could see the sun for more than a few short hours per day.

  Remembering how he’d called her a snoop yesterday made her stomach hot with embarrassment. Of course poking her nose into the man’s correspondence and personal things hadn’t been strictly necessary. But curiosity combined with loneliness had made her a meddler, she supposed. In any case, the letters had not been very interesting. One, that seemed rather cold, was from his father. But Abigail knew not everyone was as blessed with a father as affectionate as hers. Another was from a woman named Lydia and spoke mostly about mutual acquaintances, dresses, and parties. The other letters were military documents.

  And his collection of rocks had captivated her. She’d not met anyone else who’d shared her fascination with geology. She wondered if he was interested in mineral compounds or just liked to pick up curious rocks.

  Abigail paused outside the barn doors as her nervousness returned, making her insides squirm. She may have only imagined it, but there were a few moments the day before when she’d thought Captain Prescott was flirting with her. Of course, men had flirted with her before, but none of her suitors had lasted long. Men didn’t like when a woman was interested in science or doctoring, which was considered a man’s profession. Besides, not one of them could ever compare to her father. But Captain Prescott’s flirting had made her feel shivery. And it unnerved her. She couldn’t grow too fond of the man when she intended to turn him in to the soldiers at Fort Malden as soon as he was mended. And Captain Prescott was very difficult not to grow fond of. Abigail breathed in the cold morning air until she felt collected enough to enter the barn.

  “Good morning, Miss Tidwell.”

  Abigail stopped in the doorway, surprised. Somehow Captain Prescott had pulled himself into a sitting position. He’d manipulated the rope, drawing it to one side so he could rest his back against a wagon wheel. One arm rested in his lap and the other hung, suspended in the air. The quilts were wrapped around his waist. He bowed his head forward and gave a smile showing a flash of white teeth.

  She smiled back and gave a curtsy. “You look much better today, Captain.” Maggie lowed loudly from her pen, and Abigail glanced toward her. “I have some food, but it will take me a little while to get milk. Would you like to eat breakfast now? Or wait?”

  “I’ll wait if you intend to join me.” He rested his head back on the wheel’s spokes.

  The position didn’t look at all comfortable, but Abigail was glad he was moving. Her father said patients recovered much quicker if they were able to get up and move about. She nodded and hurried to
milk the cow.

  A quarter of an hour later, Abigail returned. She took a pewter cup from the basket and scooped fresh milk into it. Removing a sock from one of his hands, she gave him the cup. She thought nothing tasted better than warm, creamy milk on a cold morning.

  He took a drink and sighed, giving a nod. He must agree. Captain Prescott’s hanging arm dipped when he lifted the other to drink. Rather like a marionette. The lack of control over his limbs must be extremely frustrating, but he did not act like it bothered him at all.

  He lifted his chin, pointing at the bucket. “That’s quite a lot of milk for one person.”

  “It is not all for me,” she said, taking the lid off a larger can and pouring the milk inside. During the warm months, the family kept milk in the springhouse, a cool storage area built into a hill, but in the winter, the barn’s temperature remained low enough. “My neighbor, Mr. Kirby, will take it into town to sell.” She replaced the metal lid and moved the milk closer to the barn door. Laying a cloth on the ground, she knelt beside Captain Prescott. “How are your injuries feeling today?”

  “Better.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  He set the cup on the floor. “If I say I am healed, will you let me go?”

  His voice was light, but she did not think he was teasing. She poured warm soup into a mug and handed it to him. “I apologize, but I cannot. I must turn you in to General Procter at Fort Malden as soon as you are well enough.”

  His eyes tightened, but the rest of his face remained pleasant. “I see.”