THREE
Chilled by his words, Maggie sat frozen, clutching her mother’s necklace. She glanced at the family bible and hesitantly picked it up, tracing the worn leather cover. Her parents had read aloud so often, she could recite most of the passages.
Frowning, she guessed that this man probably could too.
He was the strangest person she had ever met.
Firstly, he was an officer. So that means he had to have some standing to become one.
Secondly, he was the opposite of any Union soldier she had heard of.
Reputation preceded them. Tales had been shared of their rude mannerisms, thievery, and most of all, hatred for all southerners.
This man, Henry, as he called himself, appeared to be none of that. And claimed to believe in God, on top of it all.
It was over an hour before he returned. She’d long since hobbled back to her cot. He came in carrying a sack of some sort of grain.
“Sky looks like it might finally rain, so I’m bringing in Samson’s feed. The barn roof has a few holes in it, and I can’t risk it getting ruined.”
Maggie’s heart leapt at the thought of rain coming. Then the rest of his statement registered. “Samson?”
Henry looked up from setting the bag down in a corner. “My horse. I brought grain with me on the journey in case there wasn’t enough wild hay for him to eat.”
“You have a horse?” Maggie raised her eyebrows.
“You didn’t think I carried you all the way from the creek, did you? You might be small, but that task in the middle of a southern summer is no small feat.” A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
She narrowed her eyes. They weren’t friends. Rolling her head to one side, she didn’t respond.
Henry seemed to sense that they were done with small talk for tonight. He stood up. “You’ve had a long day. Probably best to turn in.”
Maggie quickly turned her head to face him. “And where do you think you’ll be sleeping?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be sleeping in the lean-to. Goodnight, miss.”
Over the next few days, little was done or said. Maggie rested, feeling a little stronger by the day. Her chest was still unbearably painful whenever she moved, but having food in her belly did wonders.
Henry busied himself doing God-knows-what outside, occasionally coming in every hour or so to check on her.
He managed to bring in a few rabbits that he cooked for them.
Now permitted to eat more than bread, it was the most delicious thing Maggie thought she’d ever tasted. But she would never admit it.
In those moments, Maggie almost forgot that she hated him.
Then, the all-too-familiar feeling of anger rose when she remembered who he really was.
Seeing him at her mother’s cookstove in his Union Army-issued pants and boots pained her.
Her father had given that stove to her mother.
Now, someone who may have killed him stirred its coals.
Henry made no move to touch her, true to his word. He’d offered assistance on numerous occasions when she needed to rise. No deep conversation had taken place since their heated exchange, or at least, heated on her part. But they somehow managed to glean small bits of information from each other.
She learned that he was twenty-five and from a sheep farm in Pennsylvania—but made no mention of a wife or betrothed. She shared that she was nineteen, but as he obviously knew where she was from, she offered no other facts.
On impulse, she asked, “What’s your full name?”
Warmth spread in his eyes. “John Henry Thomas Farrow. The third. My father was called Henry Thomas, and his father, John. I suppose my mother decided to just stick with Henry rather than shorten mine to Thomas, for fear of me doubting Christ even once in my life.”
Maggie digested it, testing the name in her head. He didn’t look like a Thomas. She understood the reference he’d made to the Apostle Thomas but chose not to address it. If this were a test of his, she wouldn’t play. Then, a thought occurred to her.
“Why haven’t you asked me my name? We’ve been together for days now and you’ve never once called me anything.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t want to push. I knew you were already upset by events and my presence. I didn’t want to add to that. All I knew was that your last name was most likely Ackerman since I saw it engraved on your family’s bible. It was enough at the time.”
No idea what to make of that, she remained quiet. He was definitely the strangest man she had ever met.
He filled in the awkward silence. “If you’d prefer me to address you by something, there’s always ‘Miss Ackerman’.”
That seemed a little silly, even to her. They’d spent more time together than any mere acquaintance should.
“No. My name is Margaret Anne Ackerman.” After a slight hesitation, she added, “My family called me Maggie.”
A smile crinkled his eyes. “It suits you.”
Meeting his glance, she felt a small shred of something that resembled…happiness. Clearing her throat, she looked away and busied herself with straightening her quilt. Henry didn’t appear to be bothered by the conversation ending. If anything, she’d grown used to his quiet presence.
What she hadn’t grown used to was the mix of emotions she felt around him.