A Place in Your Heart Read online

  “I want you gone. Today. Now. Get your things and go.” No emotion inflected his brisk directive. Dr. Ellard stood before her as cold and rigid as a tree coated in ice after a freezing rain, both beautiful and brittle.

  “Why?” Her soft challenge to his authority burst unbidden from her throat.

  He stepped toward her, his brow tugged together in a scowl.

  She gulped but held her ground and his gaze.

  Shadows darkened the hollows beneath his eyes and deep lines of fatigue bracketed his mouth, making his glower appear far more fierce than she believed it actually was. At least that was what she told herself.

  “The paid nurses have gone. Ye need me. All yer patients like me. The other staff like me—”

  Dr. Ellard’s dark eyebrows arched in doubt.

  Well, with the exception of the attendant she’d just pummeled. And his friend. And the others who had eaten the peaches. She crossed her arms. “They do not count.”

  “Good day, Mrs. McBride.” He spun on his heels and strode back the way he’d come.

  She stared after him for a moment, then drew a deep breath and followed.

  He stopped near bed number seven. At the hollow click of her heels against the wood, his broad shoulders stiffened. His chin dropped to his chest as if he were suddenly fascinated by the grain in the planks beneath his feet.

  She stopped behind him. “Why?”

  He swung around.

  She gasped and jumped back.

  “May I see you outside?”

  Without waiting for even the slightest indication of her assent, he strode toward the door at the end of the ward. Sweet Mary Jesus the man was arrogant. ’Twould serve him right if she stayed right here. But after several seconds she hurried after him.

  He opened the door and moved to the side with an after-you gesture of his arm.

  They stepped onto the covered plank walkway which connected the eleven long white buildings which made up the wards and general office of Armory Square Hospital. Gracie crossed her arms against the cold, wishing she’d brought her shawl.

  For several erratic beats of her heart, they studied each other.

  “Women do not belong in war,” he stated in the lofty manner of a lecturer behind a podium.

  Gracie opened her mouth to argue, but she closed it under the censure of his narrowed glare.

  “They are creatures of delicate sensibilities, easily frightened and excitable.”

  Dumbfounded, her mouth fell open again. He didn’t believe this nonsense he seemed to spout from memory—did he?

  “I have witnessed first-hand the evidence of your own excitable nature, and I do not feel your emotional outbursts in the ward conducive to the calm and restorative atmosphere necessary in a hospital filled with ill and wounded patients.”

  A snicker escaped her lips and she clamped her hand over her mouth.

  He frowned.

  Had a flash of hurt flickered in his pale eyes? She hadn’t meant to offend him, but Sweet Mary Jesus, they worked so well together—as she and William had. She’d believed Doctor Ellard different from the other doctors, more forward thinking and progressive.

  “While I find your patriotic spirit admirable, we would all be better served if you returned from whence you came. There your zealous nature might be better applied to rolling bandages and sewing. The devastation this war has wrought on our country, on the country side, and on the human body, can barely be endured by the men caught up in the horror. Go home, Mrs. McBride, before the pain of this place makes you another casualty.”

  Mouth agape, she stared at him in disbelief. Always so controlled and distant, Doctor Ellard did his job efficiently, but without much tenderness. Now she wasn’t sure what to think, because if she heard him right, in some back-handed way, it sounded as if he cared—about her.

  Any response she might have made was no longer relevant, for his hands wrapped around her upper arms. Their gazes locked. Heat flared in his blue eyes.

  Begorra, was he about to—

  He yanked her to him.

  Her heartbeat quickened.

  He wasted no time with sensual foreplay, by gently nipping at her earlobe or teasing her with butterfly kisses until her lips parted. Instead, he shoved his way inside, his tongue as arrogant and dominating as he.

  The pressure of his lips teased an ache, long dormant. She wilted, clutching his upper arms to keep from sagging on the walkway. Her fingers gripped him through the wool of his sleeves, through the cotton of his shirt, holding tight to the solid strength of his muscles. The odors of lye soap and ether wafted to her from the fabric of his military jacket.

  And she responded, absorbing the morning flavors of coffee and bread as her tongue swirled around his, her body aching to be held again, to be desired, to be needed. But this was wrong.

  She shouldn’t have to tip her head back so far. The scent of pipe tobacco should linger in the air. His beard should tickle, not scratch the tender skin around her mouth. She pushed against him.

  He groaned, and as suddenly as the kiss began it ended. He stepped back. Confusion played across his features as though he wasn’t sure what had just happened.

  Gracie blinked, crossing her arms against her waist. Three years had passed since she’d been kissed, and William had never kissed her like this.

  Doctor Ellard’s voice, when he spoke, was hoarse, but his intent was crystal clear. “Now, go home.”

  Every muscle in her body stiffened. The audacity! Who did he think he was? Her breathing increased, building pressure behind her breastbone like water in a kettle on the back burner of the stove. Did he believe that one kiss from the great Doctor Ellard would so overwhelm her that she would run to do his bidding, as though she were nothing more than a vapid-brained society debutante?

  “Would ye have me go home to shop for bonnets and gossip with me morning guests, ignorin’ that ten-year-old boys are being shot on battlefields? Do ye want me to stay unchanged, so that when I go home I can pretend none o’ this ever happened?”

  “No. I want you to go home before the death of that ten-year-old boy becomes so ordinary that one day you wake up and realize you no longer have the ability to feel.”

  She squared her shoulders and stepped toward him. “Me own husband was a doctor, sir. I’ve birthed babies and stitched wounds. I stood by William’s side during surgeries and passed him instruments. I helped him clean the intestines of a man gored by a bull, before putting it all back inside that man’s belly. Me delicate sensibilities did not send me into a swoon then nor will they here. I thank ye for yer concern, Doctor Ellard, but ’tis who I am. And by the saints, as long as I have breath in me body, I will feel, and I will care.”

  Their gazes locked in that moment and something flickered in his icy depths, overshadowing his usual cynicism with what she suspected might be admiration. The harsh lines of his face softened.

  “Saint Jude must indeed be watching over you, Mrs. McBride.”

  “That he is, Doctor Ellard, that he is.”

  He gave her a brisk nod and opened the door. “You’re not going home then, are you?”

  She turned. “Ye know us Irish, Doctor Ellard. We don’t know what we want, but we’ll fight to the death to get it.”

  His lips twitched, but he didn’t laugh. Instead he waited as she preceded him inside. Then he stepped past her and strode down the aisle to bed number seven. Seemingly oblivious to the stunned silence of the patients around him, he lifted the card off the wall then leaned over the soldier gazing up at him. He folded down the sheet and slid up the patient’s shirt.

  Gracie marched down the aisle to join him.

  “Since Corporal Timon be late again, would ye like me to stand in as your orderly?”

  He stilled for a moment, heaved a weighted sigh then passed her the card.

  She dug a pencil and memorandum book from her apron pocket. The card read, Ward E, Cot #7, Edward Benjamim, Company G, 154th New York, Shot through hip, wound probed to rem
ove bone fragments and foreign matter.

  He pulled his stethoscope from the pocket of his coat and put the ivory tipped ear pieces in each ear.

  “Change dressing, three times,” Doctor Ellard dictated as he dropped the device to hang from his neck.

  She jotted down his instructions.

  “Pack with lint,” he continued. “And bandage. Administer stimulants and Blue Mass for constipation.”

  They moved to the next bed, Thomas Haley, Company M, New York Cavalry. Then on to the next…shot through lung…

  Doctor Ellard placed the black walnut cone to the man’s chest and listened for a moment to the patient’s breathing.

  “For stimulants, whiskey and wine punch. For the lungs, turpentine.”

  The stack of cards grew as they moved through the ward in quiet synchronization, as if they’d done this together a thousand times. And while this man wasn’t her husband, she felt closer to William here, just by being in this hospital, by doing what she did best, helping the patients and assisting Doctor Ellard.

  Cot #19, Ezra Minch…Typhoid

  “Fever, eyes glazed, breathing shallow. Administer stimulants. For diarrhea continue cotton felt bellyband.”

  When they reached young Gilbert, every muscle inside Gracie tightened. Outwardly, she forced an expression of calm efficiency.

  Doctor Ellard bent over the drummer boy, poked and prodded his wound. The sour stench of dead flesh and bowel wafted from the boy’s belly.

  Gracie swallowed her urge to gag and forced a smile for Gilbert.

  Still examining the wound, Doctor Ellard dictated. “Fever, chills, face waxy, breath shallow. Stimulants, wine punch. Keep comfortable.” He pulled the sheet and embroidered blanket up to the boy’s chin.

  She stepped around the bed and placed her free hand on the boy’s forehead. “Ye’ll soon be right as rain Gilbert, and when I finish helping Doctor Ellard, I’ll be back to write yer letter.”

  He nodded, his glassy eyes locked on her face.

  “’Tis a brave lad ye are, and sure yer mother be proud.”

  She gave him a quick smile and hurried after Doctor Ellard. He stopped in the center of the wide aisle and turned to face her. Furrows formed above the bridge of his nose.

  “You do a disservice to that patient by coddling him and giving him hope.”

  Her spine stiffened. “Coddling?” she bit out in a harsh whisper. “That patient is a child, Doctor Ellard, and by the saints, there will always be hope.”

  “Private Franklin is in the army, and I will treat him no different than any other soldier in my care.”

  “Nor will I, Doctor Ellard. For to ease the suffering of these brave men ’tis the reason I’ve come.”

  He stared down at her, and she shivered under the intensity of his ice-blue eyes.

  “That soldier will die, Mrs. McBride, and there is nothing you, or I, or the Great Jehovah can do about it.”

  Then before she could draw breath to argue, he moved onto Major Carlton. Without a word, Doctor Ellard tossed aside the blanket and pushed up the edge of the major’s long white shirt. Focused on the wound, he removed the bandage wrapped around the stump of the major’s leg. He peered critically at the many knotted silk threads dangling from each end of the newly formed scar. Most of the threads had come away, leaving only those which tied off the main arteries of the leg. Doctor Ellard tugged lightly on each one.

  “No wound discharge. Patient reports no phantom pain. Gaining weight.” He straightened and stepped back from the wheeled chair. “Find one of the stewards. Have them rebandage this leg.”

  “I can do it.”

  He moved to the next patient. “I thought I clearly explained to you the delicate nature of a woman’s sensibilities. Find a steward.”

  “And did I not explain to ye, that me sensibilities be not delicate. I can bandage the major’s leg and do a fine job of it too.”

  At the front of the ward the door opened, funneling a rush of cold air down the length of the long room.

  “Sorry I’m late, Captain.” Corporal Timon hurried toward them, pausing to toss his overcoat and hat onto the table which stood half-way down the ward.

  “I will listen to your excuse later, Corporal—when I file my report.”

  The orderly’s features tightened. For a moment he looked poised to argue, then he squared his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

  Turning toward Gracie, he extended his hand for the composition book and patient card. She stared at his open palm, loath to surrender her responsibility to someone who didn’t care enough to arrive on time.

  “Come now, Mrs. McBride.” Doctor Ellard blew out an impatient sigh. “I’m sure there are other duties you can attend to more suited to your tender feminine nature.”

  She glared at him. From the way he watched her, she knew he expected an outburst reflective of her excitable disposition. But by the saints, she would not give the oaf that satisfaction. Instead she lined up the corners on her stack of cards and turned away to readjust the patient’s blankets.

  “Pencil?”

  She swung around. Corporal Timon stood with his hand extended again. She was tempted to walk away and let him fend for himself. If he couldn’t come prepared, then he deserved the mental exercise of having to remember all the doctor’s orders. But then, he’d likely forget half the instructions, and the patients would suffer.

  Without a word, she dug into her apron pocket and held out a pencil, barely longer than an inch.

  With a whispered curse, he snatched the stub from her fingers.

  A smile inched across her face. She turned and strolled up the aisle to her table.

  Robbie sat in the chair, and as she drew close, he stood.

  She picked up the orderly’s overcoat and hat. “Could ye find a place to hang these?” She itched to toss them into the snow, but the corporal would likely take sick, and she’d be forced to nurse him.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And we have need o’ more pencils. I be down to me last one.”

  “Sure.” He took the coat then headed toward the end of the ward where a dining area had been partitioned off.

  She lowered herself into the chair and read through the cards, preparing a list of medicines they would need from the dispensary along with another list of food for the Special Diets Kitchen.

  Engrossed in her work, she wasn’t aware anyone had approached her table until a shadow fell across her paper. Doctor Ellard stood in front of her, the rest of the patient cards in one hand, a single card in his other. Accepting the stack, she set them to one side. “Thank ye.”

  “Where is Corporal Reid?”

  She frowned at his brisk official tone. She searched his face. It held the grim look of a man braced to deliver bad news.

  Her heartbeat quickened. “He be off on an errand.”

  He passed her the single card, Robbie’s name and rank scrawled across the top.

  “I’ll stop back to give him a final examination, but I am discharging him. He’ll be sent back to his unit next week.”

  “No.” The denial burst from her lips and she sprang to her feet. She sought his gaze, her heart in her throat.

  “You can’t protect them all, Mrs. McBride,” he stated. “Anymore than I can save them all.”

  “But Robbie ’tis needed here.”

  “Corporal Reid is needed with his unit. Such is the futility of war. Men die, and others are sent to replace them.”

  He turned and strode from the ward.

  Chapter Two

  Pulling the door closed behind him, Charles stood on the covered walkway and sucked a deep breath of cold air into his lungs before releasing it in a streaming cloud of white. He rubbed his hands together as though washing them with invisible soap, but the friction brought little warmth.

  He said far too much around Mrs. McBride. There was something about her that drew words from him, made him spill secrets he normally would never have shared. Maybe ancient Druid blood ran thick in her Iri
sh veins and she’d cast a spell over him, over the patients, over the orderlies—well, not all the orderlies.

  He gave his head a slight shake. She was nothing like the genteel ladies of his acquaintance, nothing like the other lady nurses he’d met. He pulled his watch from its pocket and popped open the clasp. And Gracie was nothing like the image he carried of his beautiful, refined mother.

  He couldn’t imagine his mother or any of the women he knew facing the reality of war head-on the way Gracie McBride did. Maybe that was why on her first day he’d looked down his nose and harumphed at her instead of greeting her properly, or gushing over her the way the other doctors, orderlies, and nurses did, as though they were all at a Sunday social instead of a military hospital in the middle of a war.

  Either way, she’d gotten her back up that day, and they’d been at odds ever since. Many of the lady nurses had come and gone. Even here, safe from any fighting, they didn’t understand the toll. Illness, mental and physical fatigue, this was grueling work, and they shouldn’t be here. Hell, none of them should be here.

  He stared at the skeletal dome of the Capitol building, the framework black against the dreary backdrop of gray sky. He wondered how much money it would cost to finish it.

  War.

  A vicious cycle of weapons designed to end life while doctors futilely tried to sustain it. He cursed Claude-Etinne Minié for inventing the conical shaped ball, for current medical knowledge was inadequate to combat its damage. And he cursed a government that would spend so much on a fancy building while doctors in the field suffered without medicines and surgical instruments.

  Hell, he’d never even seen an amputation before he enlisted, now…

  He turned and followed the breezeway past the general office, which stood in the center of the wards, to Ward F, the second ward of patients for which he was responsible.

  Squaring his shoulders, he entered the long, white building. Corporal Timon met him inside. Briskly they moved from patient to patient in the same manner with which he conducted his rounds in Ward E. As usual, Timon didn’t write fast enough, and Charles not only had to repeat his instructions numerous times, he had to spell several words and medication names aloud. For a moment he missed Gracie’s quiet efficiency.