Dr. Colson closed his book. “General Wellington, the amount of alcohol you’ve been drinking can ruin your chance at a quick recovery. You suffered a severe brain bleed. You should be dead! Take a break from drinking and let your body rest.”
“That is preposterous!” General exclaimed, his fists curled. “I’ve been drinking since I could lift a bottle to my mouth. If it is that severe, I would have died long ago.”
“You have a life-threatening injury. That brain of yours has pieces missing. The surgeons had to drill open—”
General gritted his teeth as his anger heated. “Stop that! I don’t want to hear it! How much longer do I have in this God-forsaken bed?”
Dr. Colson didn’t look up from his supply bag. “We’ll have to wait and see. If you quit drinking, maybe I can arrange a chair.”
A chair? What was he, a cripple? He wouldn’t be seen as a laughingstock. “Are you an idiot? I won’t be confined to a bed or chair! I want to walk! Do your job and make me better. You’re a physician for goodness sakes!”
Dr. Colson’s lips pursed as his nostrils flared. He closed the bag in haste. “A tantrum won’t help you recover faster either. I’ll be back in three days to check on your progress.”
“Don’t even bother coming back!” General shouted through gritted teeth.
He removed the pillow behind him and pulled out a nearly finished bottle of whiskey. He downed it as fast as he could then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Mammy!”
The plump woman peered up from her spot in the corner, her posture slumped and her eyes timid. General threw his bottle against the wall. The sound of shattering glass made Mammy jump out of her skin.
“Where is my wife? You better tell me she’s returning now!”
He wouldn’t be bathed by any servant. This was embarrassing enough having an absent wife who wasn’t there to nurse him. What use was she being with someone else’s family? He wouldn’t dare send her away on her own.
Mammy’s gaze remained at her feet. “Missus Wellington ain’t sent word, General suh. I’m sorry.”
General pointed his finger. “You better find out where she is and tell her to get her sorry little self over here now, or her torn-up hide will be on your hands.”
Mammy nodded.
“Do you hear me? Answer me, you stupid woman!”
“Yes, suh.”
General sat back against his headboard. “That’s more like it. Be a good girl and get me another bottle of whiskey. We’re going to show that Dr. Colson what a real tough man this general is.”
Chapter Eighteen
Travis’smusclesachedwitheach swing of his scythe after another week of harvesting. He looked back as Josie gathered the cut stalks, her hair falling out of her braid. She bent over, filling the wheelbarrow, and wiped the sweat from her brow. Travis had instructed her not to work so hard, and he hoped taking the scythe away would help her rest, but he was wrong.
Josie’s midsection had grown over time. Earlier, Travis hardly took time to notice her form changing, mostly because of his distance and the shawl Josie would wear. When the harvest first started, he couldn’t understand why she’d wear the garment outside with her, but now everything was clear. Travis shook his head, drowning out his thoughts. He almost repeated the same lines he always did in his mind:Before she lied to me.
Josie never lied to his face—she had only concealed a secret.He never asked her, “Were you married before?” or “Do you haveany children?” There was no reason to ask; she had never given him cause for suspicion.
“Jonas, quit horsing around!”
Travis looked up, seeing the frustrated Ivy scolding Jonas, who was throwing the stalks into the air. The children were behind the fence posts, binding the sheaves after they dried over the past week. Josie alternated between helping them and gathering more stalks to dry in the barn. That part was Aunt Polly’s job, until she remembered she had to pay Mrs. Scott a visit, three miles down the road. The woman struggled with rheumatic pains, and Aunt Polly had a cream she made from comfrey and juniper.
Travis swung the scythe in a steady swish. His shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat, and his hands ached from gripping the worn wooden handle. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, but he kept going, determined to finish just a little more before the light faded completely. Only three more hours or less before they would lose daylight.
He adjusted his grip on the scythe, not noticing how slick his hands had become with sweat. As he swung the blade in a wide arc, his hand slid too close to the sharp edge. The scythe caught at a bad angle, jerking out of his grasp. A sharp sting bit through his palm.
“Ah!” Travis gasped. He looked down, his breath catching as blood welled up from the deep gash across his hand. Warm and thick, it dripped down his wrist, staining the cuff of his shirt. “Fool,” he muttered under his breath, wincing as he flexed his fingers, watching more blood drip. He pressed his palm against his shirt.
“Travis!” Josie appeared by his side, taking hold of his arm. Travis winced, pulling away.
“I’m fine.”
