Chapter Five

The soldier drifted in and out for three days, his fever rising and falling like ocean tides. The mad stone poultice drew the infection from the wound after the first day, but Maggie worried some had entered his bloodstream. His eyelids fluttered open when Maggie or Judd entered the room to change the dressing, but the stilted mutterings from his mouth revealed he knew little about his surroundings. Judd read aloud to the stranger at night, choosing a favorite book from his childhood, The Travels of Rolando. Maggie had no idea if the man heard the words, much less understood them but the sessions appeared to still his restless limbs. On the third night, Judd opened the book to Chapter Ten. Caught up in the familiar story, at times his lips moved but his voice faded into silence. With a smile, Maggie would remind Judd he was supposed to be reading to a convalescing audience.

"But Ma, do you think he even hears me?"

"I believe he does, son. Your words seem to calm him."

She slept in the kitchen on a feather-tic mattress she'd dragged from the bedroom in case the man called out in the night. Judd spent the first two night's sleeping in a chair next to the man's bed, convinced if he left the room, he'd find the soldier dead in the morning. On the third night, after he'd read late into the evening, she convinced him to sleep in his own bed.

"The worst has passed now, son. You cannot help care for him when he wakes up unless you get a good night's sleep."

"He won't die now?"

"I 'spect the good Lord would have taken him by now if He wanted him."

* * *

Struggling to emerge from a cold, dark place, he opened his eyes to unfamiliar surroundings. Murky outlines of humans shuffling about the room entered his line of vision. A woman with gentle brown eyes hovered over him, and the stilted words from a boy nudged his memory—snippets about the adventures of a man named Rolando. He'd read at some time that the last sense to leave one's body before death was hearing, and now he believed it to be true.

The woman smiled down on him. "Good morning and welcome back to the world."

Tall for a woman, her face was pleasing to look upon. Her eyes were compassionate and soft, reminding him of the hub on a sunflower. He tried to lift his body into a sitting position and pain shot through his torso, fanning out to every muscle and fiber in his neck and head. "What happened, where am I?" He scanned the room. "And how long have I been here?"

"Whoa . . . slow down, soldier. You have some serious wounds."

"Soldier?"

She nodded. "When we found you, you were wearing Union army trousers and shirt." The soothing tone of her voice reminded him of water trickling over stones.

"I-I don't remember, cannot seem to get my bearings."

"Doesn't surprise me at all. Like I said, you've been shot."

"Shot?"

Another nod. "A bullet grazed your temple. Another quarter of an inch, you'd be talking to the spirits instead of me."

"Good or evil?"

She smiled again, so real and genuine warmth pedaled through him.

"Good spirits, I suspect, since someone from above was watching over you. I dug another bullet out of your chest."

He ran two fingers over the crusty ridge near his temple and then tapped his chest. "In that case, I'm indebted ma'am."

She waved off his gratitude with a flip of her hand. "You want to know where. You're in Dakota Territory, not far from Devil's Lake. Does any of this sound familiar?"

"Not one bell ringing so far."

"I believe your regiment engaged with the Indians, most likely Sioux. When Judd found you—"

"Judd?"

"My son." She pointed to a chair beneath the only window in the room. "Your uniform's been washed and mended."

Glancing at the chair, his head throbbed. "I hear every word but . . .."

She cocked her head to the side. "But?"

"I don't recognize those blue trousers or the shirt."

"That's not unusual after a head injury. Let's give it some time."

He gave a slow nod.

"You asked how long you've been lying in this bed. Four days now. You were burning with fever from the chest wound, and mumbling nonsensical words from the head wound."

Her neck rotated when a tall, young boy burst into the room. "Ma, he's awake!"

"Yes, son." She shifted toward him again. "This is Judd. He's been reading to you at night and has been very worried about you."

"Hey, Judd."

"Out searching for arrowheads, he found you several miles from here."

Judd scraped a chair across the floorboards and placed it near the bed. "What did the Injuns look like? Were they wearing war paint? Did you fight them hand-to-hand? What about their ponies—?"

"Judd, stop, now! Give the man time to get his bearings."

The boy frowned. "Ah, Ma, I just want to know if he killed any Injuns."

"I said no more questions. He needs rest." With a shake of her head, a faint smile curved her lips. "Forgive him; he's a bit pushy at times."

"I wish I could appease his curiosity, especially after all the fine reading, but I just don't recall right now." He felt his brow crease. "Not the battle, why I was there, nothing."

"Like I said, give it time." One dark brow lifted. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes, ma'am, I think I could eat something, but first I have to use—"

"The privy. Judd will help you."

The boy came to his feet and held out an arm after he swung his feet off the bed. "Lean on me," he said, "and I'll lead you out."

The woman stepped aside and let them pass. "I'll rustle up some food while you're gone."

Soldier stopped in midstride and wondered if he asked the question on the tip of his tongue if he'd remember the answer. "You didn't tell me your name."

"Maggie, Maggie Ashbridge. That's only two names you'll have to remember for now."

"You and Judd are living alone out here?"

Her face took on a contemplative expression. "Judd's Pa is off fighting in the war, somewhere in the muck and mire of the South."

"He's coming back," Judd piped in. "So, you'll get to meet him one day."

"I hope so. Then I can tell him how thankful I am his son and wife saved my life."

Judd waited outside the privy and returned with him to the house. The woman had set the table while they were gone and nodded him into a chair while she placed a black, cast iron kettle near his plate. "Hope you like stew and biscuits." She glanced at her son. "Sit, Judd, next to Mister . . .

Other than a light rain dashing against the windowpanes, pervasive silence settled over the room.

"My name, you want to know my name." He shook his head and gave a sardonic snort. "I can't seem to bring it forth; I don't remember it right now."

Mother and son exchanged looks before she bestowed him a smile. "It's all right; we won't worry about that for now."

Her heart went out to him. She had seen such a malady before, loss of memory from a blow to the head or a high fever. In the soldier's case, it could be from either one. Sometimes the memory returned within hours of waking and sometimes it took days or even weeks.

He shuffled the stew around with a spoon, mumbling as if talking to himself. "I cannot remember a single thing before waking up in this house." He shook his head. "Everything that happened before this moment eludes me. My name, what is my name?"