Yankee Wife by Linda Lael Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

days, let alone discuss them. There was every possibility that the nightmares would return if she dwelt on the topic too long. “It was not very pleasant, of course.”
    â€œI have no doubt of that,” Mr. Quade agreed, watching her.
    Lydia finished another bite of pie, which didn't taste quite as good as the first. “Perhaps you were involved in the war effort in some way?” she asked, hoping to direct the flow of conversation away from herself.
    â€œActually,” he replied, reaching out for a china pot that looked ridiculously out of place in his brawny, callused hand and pouring himself more coffee, “I sold timber to both sides and kept out of the argument.”
    She pushed away her pie, unable to believe what she'd just heard. “‘The argument’?” she echoed in disbelief.
    Quade leaned forward in his chair, looking baffled. Clearly, he knew he'd offended her again but couldn't think how.
    She was about to enlighten him.
    â€œI have seen bodies stacked between trees like cord-wood, Mr. Quade,” she said coldly, sitting up very straight in her chair. “Sometimes, one of the arms or legs would twitch. We didn't know whether or not some of those men were still alive, and we hadn't a moment to find out, because there were others—so many others—being brought in all the time. At Gettysburg there were corpses so thick on the ground you could barely wedge a foot between them, and they say the water of Antietam Creek ran scarlet with blood. I would not call the War Between the States an ‘argument.’ Furthermore, I consider your selling lumber to the rebel states an act of treason.”
    â€œThe war is over, Lydia,” he said, his voice quiet and grave.
    She barely heard him, she was so flustered. “Have you no conscience? How could you bear to prosper from such carnage?”
    Brigham's tones were still level, though a tiny muscle was twitching under his left cheekbone. “I didn't start the conflict, and I couldn't have stopped it by refusing to sell lumber because a man wore gray instead of blue.”
    Lydia was so horrified that, for the moment, she couldn't speak. She sat clutching the edge of the table, unable to rise from her chair.
    Mr. Quade regarded her thoughtfully for a long interval, then said, “I am willing to allow you your opinion, Miss McQuire. Why is it that you are so troubled by mine?”
    She closed her eyes, hearing the exploding shells again, the screams, mere boys in farm clothes and mismatched uniforms, covered in gore and shrieking for their mothers. She smelled the powder from the cannons, the blood, the merciless stench made up of sweat, excrement, urine, and infected flesh. She swayed, felt a strong hand grasp her forearm and steady her.
    â€œLydia!”
    She looked, saw Mr. Quade bending close, but she could still hear the screams. Even after she'd walked away from the hospital in Washington City for the last time, she'd heard them, night and day, hour upon hour, until she'd truly thought she'd go mad from the sound.
    She was trembling.
    Mr. Quade went to a side table. She heard the clinking of glass against glass, and then he returned, shoving a brandy snifter into her hand.
    Normally, Lydia did not take ardent spirits, given the havoc whiskey had caused in her father's life, but she was about to topple over and she needed something to revive her. She took an unsteady sip, using both hands to hold the glass.
    â€œWhat just happened here?” Brigham demanded, crouching beside her chair. As shaken as she was, his nearness had its effect on her. She felt an achy heat deep inside her, in that place a good woman tried hard not to think about. “You look as though you've just taken tea with the devil.”
    Lydia was beginning to gather her composure. The nightmare was at bay, for the time being at least, and the alcohol had warmed her blood, but in another way she was more frightened than ever. Mr.