Melanie had seen it first. The faded blue coat that made her think of scorching fire, the acrid smell of smoke. Of red soaked cloth, and loud, piercing gunshots.
"Scarlett—" she began to warn, but the woman had already caught it. That falling, sinking feeling in her stomach returned and she jolted upwards, her calloused fingers clutched behind her skirts in the same manner months before, as if the deadly weapon had never left her hand. Thoughts of disbelief or hesitation hadn't crossed her mind, only the overwhelming instinct to survive and she turned to open a drawer, unable to see the way the stranger stumbled and staggered across the remains of the once grand walkway.
She had only taken one step before Melanie gripped her wrist, her eyes still staring out the window.
"He's injured," she stated simply—as if that would deter her!
"Don't be a goose, Melly. Let me go." She tore her arm away, with a brute force that should have toppled the still recovering mother, though Scarlett heard no thud and did not even glance back to survey her reaction. Only one thought clouded her mind—the gun—all she had to do was retrieve it and only then could she allow herself to think straight. The cool metal had only been clutched in her hand for a few seconds when she heard a pained grunt from the outside, drawing her eyes reluctantly to the scene outside: the man was now on his knees, clutching his stomach, coughing out blood that scattered upon the patches of soil around him. The grip around the pistol loosened for a moment before she remembered what the blue represented and why she had lunged for the weapon in the first place.
Sensing what her sister-by-marriage was planning to do, Melanie went by her side and, in what was meant to be a soothing gesture but had only riled her further, patted her shoulder and clutched the determined hand that held the gun.
"I think he's looking for help, Scarlett."
She scowled, her arm trembling as she heard the creak of the porch floorboards.
"Well, he can look for help elsewhere because he certainly won't find any here."
Scarlett pulled out of Melanie's feeble grasp and stealthily headed down the stairs, her heartbeat ringing out in her ears, blocking out the sounds of her own feet, of her own breathing. Her arm slid closer to her side, pressing against dirtied skirt folds, her finger coiled around the trigger, ready to pounce. As she raised it by a ghost of an inch, her hasty mind made sense of the sight before her and nearly collapsed, the gun almost slipping from her vice-like grip.
"Wade! Come over here now!"
The boy looked to his mother, then to the unconscious man strewn on the floor before him, the tears running down his cheeks, and her uncontrollable fear was replaced with a much more familiar irritation. Melanie was quick to swoop her nephew from the wrath of his mother, turning his face away from the front entryway. Though she stood in the middle of the steps, the unmoving body giving a sense of relief—she could breathe once more.
"He's been shot." Melanie hesitated, looking meekly at Scarlett's dark, resentful face. "We should…"
"I'm not putting a roof over a Yankee's head, and neither are you."
She meant her decision to be final and made her way down the stairs, approaching the wounded man with a purposeful stride.
"He hasn't come to hurt us… And he could be like Ashley…" she murmured, and Scarlett froze, her hand balling into a fist at Melanie's untimely empathy.
"This man could have just as easily killed him and all the other boys who died from the war."
"He's hurt," was all she replied, and Scarlett let out a frustrated sigh, glaring down at the crumpled body that lay on her floor. Only this time, it was not out of her own doing. She kneeled and all but ripped the coat from his shoulders, too uncaring to be gentle, throwing the garment at Melanie's feet.
"Burn it. Bury it. Just get rid of it. We don't need everyone else on our backs as it is."
As she left, Scarlett studied the bloodied shirtfront, feeling more aggrieved than concerned over his potential fate. There would be trouble, no doubt if he lived or died, but she could not think of it now, or else she'll go mad. Without remorse, her hands searched his pockets though, much to her disappointment, found only a dusty handkerchief and a folded piece of paper.
Dear Mother,
If you get this letter, it means I have succumbed to the illness they call patriotism. I can only be sorry that we had not spent more time together and I decided that had I written father, you would never hear of me ever again. Send the old man my regards—I'm sure he's at peace knowing his eldest son can only haunt him from the grave.
Scarlett had transcribed and read many deathbed correspondences but never this blithe and callous speech, so she gawked at the letter and, for the first time, looked at the face that had written them into existence. His features were unlike the county boys she had grown up with, and his condition (and their circumstance!) made it difficult to discern whether she found him handsome or not, but his roguish appearance certainly matched the tone set in his letter, and he seemed to be older—she would guess something around thirty-five. Looking down, with the handkerchief still pressed into her palm, she observed the pale blue embroidery that spelled out three, curved letters. RKB.
She sighed and got to her feet, her mind quickly calculating her next steps. If he left once he recovered, she would need not worry of him betraying himself and their secret with uncouth manners or a crass Northern accent. He must interact with other inhabitants as little as possible, leaving only her and Melanie to play nurse at his bedside. Meaning less cotton. Less money. Less food.
How she wished to cry out in frustration, furious at Melanie's insistence, at her mention of Ashley, at her weakness for letting such softness convince her!
"Only a few days," she muttered, wiping her hand over her face. Her nose twitched at the smell of smoke, and she focused solely on the man before her mind traveled to more unwelcome places.
"He will be conscious soon… And then he will be gone."