Nor could she live with her family in a remote hilltop house that could be out of reach for her patients, especially in case of a nighttime emergency. Finding a place close to town and getting set up with an office, a reliable auto, and maybe access to a horse and buggy was going to take time and effort. But she would take on the challenges tomorrow. Tonight, she just wanted to rest.
Dressed in her nightgown, she selected a random book from the shelf above her head—The Last of the Mohicans, by James Fenimore Cooper. Snuggling under the covers, she opened the book to the first chapter. When she was growing up, the story had been one of her favorites. Rereading it now brought back the memory of being a young girl again. Except that she was no longer a girl. And she’d seen horrors that, by comparison, would make the dangers faced by Hawkeye and Cora seem like a game of hide-and-seek.
By the end of the chapter, she was drowsy enough to put the book aside and switch off the bedside lamp. For a time, she lay quietly, gazing at the moon-cast shadow of the pine that grew outside her window. Little by little, her body relaxed. Her breathing slowed and deepened as the fog of sleep drifted over her—and with it came the dream.
She stood at the entrance to the hospital tent, wearing long rubber gloves, a cap over her hair, and a bloodstained white apron. The frigid winter wind carried the odors of gunpowder, raw earth, rotting animal carcasses, smoke, and blood. From the far side of the next ridge came the rumble of exploding mortar shells falling on the American soldiers in their trenches.
Her eyes scanned the crude road that had been hacked out of the hillside from the battlefield to the hospital. Anxiety tightened a knot in her stomach. Where was that ambulance with its load of wounded men?
It was a regular thing for her nurses to double as ambulance drivers. But she should never have sent Marie Farman out with the vehicle. Only a few days ago, Marie had revealed that she was pregnant by a soldier who’d died. She was set to be transferred to a safer posting. But the girl had insisted on taking her turn as driver today. Now the ambulance was overdue.
From over the ridge, she could see flashes of light against the dawn sky. The blasts seemed to be getting louder. If the troops were falling back, the hospital would need to be moved as well, wounded men and all. It would be prudent to prepare her staff for bad news.
Now, at last, she caught sight of the ambulance coming around the hill and down the road. With a sigh of relief, she turned back toward the tent to alert the nurses and doctors inside.
At that instant, a shell, flying over the ridge, made a direct hit on the ambulance. The roar of sound and flame obliterated the vehicle, the wounded men in the back, and the driver.
Abandoning all caution and common sense, Kristin raced toward the burning remains. That was when another shell struck the hospital tent. The force of the blast knocked her flat on the ground. She screamed . . .
Her body jerked awake.
She lay shaking in her warm bed. She was home, safe in the cozy upstairs room of her girlhood. But that dream, like so many lost faces, would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Forcing herself to take deep breaths, she waited for her pulse to stop racing. She had long since learned that going back to sleep would be impossible. She didn’t like depending on alcohol—a habit she was struggling to break. But a drink would settle her quivering nerves.
Her father had kept a stash of Kentucky bourbon in a locked cabinet in his study. If Blake hadn’t moved things around, it might still be there. She wouldn’t take much—just enough to feel the burn going down her throat.
Wasn’t that what she always said?
Without bothering to turn on the lamp, she sat up, swung her legs off the bed, and reached for the robe she’d left draped over a chair. The house would be dark, but she’d grown up here. She could find her way blindfolded.
She crept down the hall, the polished wood floor cold beneath her bare feet. She had almost reached the landing when an unexpected sound reached her ears. The door to one of the bedrooms stood ajar. Inside, someone was crying—not just crying, sobbing.
Blake and Hanna’s bedroom was downstairs. The door to the girls’ shared room was closed. It had to be Joseph she was hearing.
The boy had been fine at supper, smiling, teasing his sister a little. Now he was crying as if his young heart had been ripped in two.
What could have hurt that much?
When the truth struck Kristin, it didn’t come as a surprise—nor did her awareness that she was mostly to blame.
Guilt-ridden, she rapped lightly on the open door. When no answer came, she stepped into the room. With her eyes accustomed to darkness, she could make out her nephew’s huddled figure under the quilts. Leaning over the bed, she laid a hand on his shoulder.
“It’s me, Joseph,” she said.
“Go away, Aunt Kristin.” His pillow muffled the words.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not until we’ve had a chance to talk.” Kristin pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down.
“Tell me what happened.”
At first he lay still, refusing to talk. Minutes passed before he rolled onto his side, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his flannel pajamas. “I just wanted to tell Dad good night. I was on my way outside when I heard him talking to you.”
“I understand. How much did you hear?”
“Enough. Enough to know that everything I believed about my family was a lie.” His voice broke.
“Oh, Joseph.” Kristin checked the impulse to take him in her arms. The boy wouldn’t want that. And Kristin didn’t want to treat him like a baby. It was grow-up time.
He sat up. “I’ve always wondered why I’m the only one in the family with green eyes. Now I know. My father isn’t Blake Dollarhide. He’s a man I’ve never seen—a man who left town because he didn’t want me. And my dad didn’t want me either. Grandpa forced him to marry my mom.”
“That’s not true. If you’ll stop feeling sorry for yourself, I’ll tell you the real story. Would you like to hear it?”
Joseph nodded, sniffing.
“All right. First of all, do you understand that your grandpa, Joe Dollarhide, had two wives—and two sons, Blake and Mason?”
Joe nodded. “I know that much.”
“Mason lived with his mother, Amelia, on the Hollister Ranch. But while he was growing up, he spent a lot of time here, with our family. He was my brother. I loved him. We all did, even my mother. But after he became a man, he stopped coming by. We hardly ever saw him. It broke your grandfather’s heart. He loved both his sons.
“Mason was handsome and charming, but I think his mother must have spoiled him. He was popular, especially with the girls. But he wasn’t very responsible. He met your mother at a dance. She was young and beautiful, and very innocent when it came to men. Mason charmed her into falling in love with him. And then . . .” Kristin paused. “I hope I don’t have to tell you how babies are made.”
“It’s okay. Boys talk. I know.”
“Well, it happened. When your mother found out she was going to have a baby, your grandfather Anderson went to Mason’s mother and demanded that he marry her. That woman slammed the door in their faces and sent Mason out of town on the next train. She wanted him to marry a rich society girl, not the daughter of an immigrant farmer. Mason never had the chance to choose whether he wanted you or not. And we never saw him again. We don’t know where he is or even whether he’s alive.”