“But . . . I-I can’t have you do that,” Josie said quickly. Her mind flooded with thoughts of the three older ladies who surrounded them the day after they married. They were already shocked that Travis married in secret, never mentioning a courtship beforehand. She couldn’t imagine the shame that would come once the baby came early.
“The baby will come too soon. The timing will be off . . . I can’t bring shame upon your family with this.” Josie placed her hand on her abdomen. “I’m already showing.”
“I’m prepared for that,” Travis reassured. “I’ve thought this through. You might not have been honest with me and my family, but that baby is innocent. I know what it’s like to grow up without a father, and I can’t let another child go through with that if I can prevent it.”
“The town will think less of you. They’ll think we . . .” She could hardly stomach the rest of her words.
“I don’t care.” Travis placed his hand on his chest. “Let them think less of me. That child deserves a life with a family that will love him or her no matter what.”
“You don’t have to take responsibility for a child that’s not yours.”
“Josie,” Travis breathed, extending a hand to her. He placed it on Josie’s armrest, inches from her fingers. “You are my wife. Let me love your child like you love mine.”
Josie placed her other hand on her stomach. She didn’t deserve Travis, but her child did. She’d spend the rest of her days making it up to him and wouldn’t let dishonesty cloud their future again. However, in the shadows of her mind lurked another skeleton—one she had buried deep, hoping it would fade away. She was better off forgetting it, nothing more than a bad dream. But this life she was living now wasn’t a dream.
It was real.
Chapter Seventeen
Generalgrippedthebedsheets with his bare hands, causing a slight rip as he waited to hear Dr. Colson’s report. Since he had woken two weeks ago, Dr. Colson had come three times to check on him, only to give the same results.“Get some rest and you should be able to walk in a month or two,”he’d say.“Do your exercises for ten minutes a day.”
Those exercises were useless. That old, fat mammy of Josie’s would massage his feet and stretch and pull in many different directions as Colson had taught her, and they didn’t help a lick, because General still couldn’t feel his feet. Sometimes he’d suffer a cramp, but each time he tried to stand and show the doctor he was strong enough to walk, he’d collapse to the floor.
Colson continued to write in that tiny notebook of his, recording every moment of his observation as though General was a circus animal.Experimental surgery, my foot.What was he—an experimental specimen? He went to West Point at the age of sixteen and was promoted to colonel during the Mexican-American War, earning his title as a war hero. Being reduced to a test subject was beneath him, an insult to his contributions to the Confederacy.
General pursed his lips as his rage bubbled to the surface, causing him to rip another hole in the sheet. The doctor was useless garbage who couldn’t help him. What was a doctor good for if he couldn’t heal a patient properly?
General would rather die than be labeled as a useless cripple. How could he live in this confined room? He was no prisoner—never had been, and never would be. That’s because he was an invincible warrior. He may have had a scarred face, but he wasn’t bedridden yet. No doctor would make him a laughingstock.
He survived it all—hardly a bullet in him except once, and that didn’t put him down. He kept fighting, striking down every Mexican soldier in his path. Then, he made his way to the medical tent just in time before he could bleed to death. He didn’t earn his title by sitting in bed and having his wife’s Mammy bathe and spoon feed him. He earned it by toughening up and not letting any emotions cloud his judgment. He pushed through and guarded himself like a steel wall. He wouldn’t be weak like his father, who chose to kill himself rather than face his problems.
Melancholia—that’s what those physicians had diagnosed his old man with. General’s father couldn’t get off opium after his wife died. The grief destroyed him, but General pushed through his mother’s death. West Point made him a man, a man his father couldn’t be.
Doctor Colson put his notebook inside his coat pocket and retrieved his stethoscope. He placed it on General’s chest like many times before. General breathed in and out.
“Again,” Dr. Colson said.
General took a large gulp of air then exhaled. He was ready for his examination to be finished. It was time for business again. He needed to find that wife of his and later teach the doctor a lesson. No, he’d teach those surgeons a lesson first. What a joy it would be to shake them up a little! A tiny chuckle escaped his exhausted lungs. Revenge was sweet—General could taste it like honey straight from the comb. Oh, what a time that would be to see their agony and admit their faults. They’d pay a great price for tampering with America’s finest hero.
Dr. Colson pulled out his notebook again and began writing. “Have you been taking the morphine I prescribed for you?”
“Every day,” General answered.How many more times do I have to repeat myself?
“How about the exercises?”
“Ten minutes a day, as you prescribed.”
Dr. Colson nodded. “Excellent. We shall double that to twenty. Your muscles should recover smoothly, and you’ll walk by Christmas or so.”
General wanted to huff aloud. No, he’d walk before then. He’d triple those silly exercises. Nothing would confine him any longer.
“Have you been drinking?”
Mammy kept her head down in the corner, looking at her feet. General chuckled.
Dr. Colson cocked a brow. “How much?”
General crossed his arms. “What does that have to do with anything?”
