The bandage across Hunter's shoulder was a bloody reminder of death's waiting vigil. Some spots along the white cloth were bright red, and others were already drying to a dark purple. The bandage had to be changed before the material stuck to his flesh and caused more damage.
Perry felt bonded to Hunter. Though they'd never talked, his life was as vital to her as her own. She would do whatever was necessary to see that he lived; then she would try to find Noma.
Afraid of seeing the searing pain in his eyes again, she pulled off the soiled dressing as slowly and gently as she could. Blood oozed from the torn tissue on his right shoulder, calling an abrupt halt to Perry's progress. She took a deep breath, fighting to control her nausea. She knew that the hot redness, spreading like scarlet weeds beneath the skin from the bloody injury, meant infection.
Hunter slept, unaware of her touch. She slowly bathed his shoulder, remembering how he'd touched hers in the darkness. Whether he lived or died would depend on her keeping the wound clean until a doctor could be found. The jagged rip in his skin and muscles stood in sharp contrast to the other smooth shoulder. Perry watched as his chest rose and fell slightly with each breath. In the light his undamaged skin shone golden to his waist.
She wrapped his arm where sections of the skin were rubbed away. Hunter moved in pain, clenching his teeth, yet made no sound. Perry finished her work as rapidly as possible, binding him with clean strips. She lifted his head gently as he accepted the water she offered. Even as Hunter's fever raged, anger boiled in her own veins. Dear God, how she hated this war! How she hated not being able to help him. She longed to see those gray eyes filled with something other than pain.
Hunter held out a hand toward her. "Angel, where's the Star?" he mumbled. "Angel… my angel, was the Star captured? Is Abram alive?"
Perry grabbed his long fingers and pulled them to her cheek, wishing she could answer his questions, but they made no sense. "I'm here," she whispered as she moved his fingers along her face.
Hunter looked up, his eyes half closed, his mouth tight with struggle. His hand slowly crossed her cheek and circled to the back of her neck, as though touching her were the medicine he craved. His ringers caressed her flowing black hair as he pulled her face near his own. "My angel, you are so…"
Pain clouded his eyes. Perry lowered him to the hay and reached for a scrap of cloth to bathe his feverish face. She wrapped the only blanket around him, softly whispering words of care, though she knew he could no longer hear her.
She sat, chin resting on her knees, watching Hunter for most of the morning and wondering what he'd been about to say. She was lost in thought and didn't react at first to the creaking sound of the old barn door. In her mind the sound seemed faraway, unreal. When the noise did register, she would have bolted to the edge of the loft to welcome Noma, but panic's cold fingers gripped her. It might not be Noma, and the visitor might not be welcome.
Pulling her hat down securely, Perry inched her way to the loft's edge. Lying on her stomach, she slid over the stored ladder and pulled herself close enough to peer down at the intruders below.
Three soldiers milled around beneath her. They poked, inspecting the hay, searching every corner of the dusty floor. Luckily not one bothered to look up. With the ladder removed, the tiny loft rose unnoticed in the late-morning shadows. Perry stared at the three blue uniforms moving beneath. Blue! They were wearing blue. Her mind raced. Somehow, since dawn, her haven had changed hands. She was no longer in Southern territory but in Northern-occupied land.
Perry glanced at Hunter, then back at the men below. He had to have a doctor. If she couldn't tell which side he was on, neither could they. The fact that she'd found him hiding should be strong evidence to any Southerner that he was a Yankee.
Scrambling like a mouse at daybreak, she moved across the loft and shoved a small pouch of valuables between two rafters. Her tiny treasures would be safer in this loft than on her body. Then, with a sigh of resolution, she lifted the ladder and shoved it through the opening before she had time to change her mind. Blue or gray, Hunter needed help.
As the ladder hit the floor with a thud, the three men bolted into a defensive action. They moved swiftly and cautiously, with catlike grace. Each showed the skilled training one obtains only with years of practice and war. They wielded their weapons as if the metal were an extension of their arms. The trio seemed more like animals of prey than men. Perry pulled her hat low and set her mind to enlisting their help.
All three were staring, guns cocked, as Perry slowly descended the ladder. Her own personality vanished like an actor's must as he steps into a role with each curtain's rising. "You dirty Yanks haven't started killin' kids yet, have ya?" Perry's voice was low and rough. "Y'all wouldn't want to kill me, anyway. I've done you blue bellies a favor."
She reached the bottom of the ladder, squared her shoulders in the oversize jacket, and faced the men with all her mustered bravery. She kicked at the dust, as she'd often seen young boys do when they spoke to their elders around the churchyard. Perry didn't look the men in the face for fear one might suspect her gender. She cleared her throat. "Like I say, I done you boys a big favor, and I'm hopin' you'll be grateful."
One man, larger and stockier in build than the other two, moved forward. His large bulk seemed caked with enough layers of dirt to cultivate a crop. Perry curled her nose at his odor, but she forced herself to stand firm. The man grunted and smiled with a mouthful of yellowed teeth. "Well, little Johnny Reb, what have you done to make us ail grateful? Did you stay out of the war so we'd have a chance to win?"
His two companions laughed at his joke and lowered their guns. They, too, were dressed in worn, dirty uniforms of faded blue. Both had slim, weasel-like bodies and dull eyes that reflected no love of life. Like men Perry had seen in the South, they'd done too much killing and not enough living.
Perry rubbed her nose on her sleeve and purposefully boasted, "I've been keeping one of your Yankee officers alive all day, sir. Found him nearly dead, I did. Knew he be one of your officers, so I thought somebody might just come lookin' for him. Figured if I kept him alive, there might be somethin' in it for me," she lied.
The huge soldier's eyebrows raised questioningly as he surveyed the room. Perry pointed upward. "He be up there, sir. I figured it was drier. He needs a doctor bad, 'cause he's lost a lot of blood."
The stout soldier motioned for his comrades to watch Perry while he climbed the ladder. Sweat beaded across her forehead as her heart thumped past the minutes. Her hands were in tight fists inside her huge pockets, her right fingers gripping her small knife. If this lie didn't work, maybe she could run for the door. Her heart pounded as she realized what nonsense that would be. A woman with a four-inch knife was no match for three men with guns. If they didn't shoot her, they'd surely discover her to be female in the scuffle. Perry had heard stories of lone women found by soldiers, and these three looked capable of any crime.
A booming voice echoed down the ladder. "The kid's right. There is a wounded man up here. Looks half dead." The stout man appeared at the edge of the loft. "Catch, Jack," he yelled, throwing his rifle down at the same time. "I'll carry him down."
"Fine, Luke," the man who caught the gun answered in a hollow, dead tone. Perry studied the two men before her and realized neither cared if Hunter lived or died. They must see men die daily; one more was of no consequence.