He drifted into sleep, her soft voice warming him like a candle defying the darkness.

The sun was inching above the horizon when Jem drew his last, labored breath, then became still. Catherine laid him back in the straw with a grief beyond tears. He was so young.

Her cramped legs almost failed when she got to her feet. As she leaned against the rough stone wall and waited for her muscles to recover, she glanced at the man on her left. His blanket had slipped, exposing the stained bandages swathing his broad chest.

The air was still chilly, so she leaned down and drew the blanket up to his shoulders again. Then she laid her hand on his forehead. To her surprise, the fever had broken. When she had given him water, she would not have given a ha'penny for his chances. But he was a tall, powerful-looking fellow; perhaps he had the strength to survive his wounds. She hoped so.

Wearily she made her way toward the door. During her years following the drum, she had learned a great deal about nursing and more than a little surgery, but she had never become inured to the sight of suffering.

The austere landscape was peaceful after the deafening clamor of the day before. By the time she reached her tent, much of her tension was gone. Her husband, Colin, had not yet returned from duty, but her groom, Bates, was sleeping outside, guarding the captain's womenfolk.

Tired to the bone, she ducked inside the tent. Amy's dark head popped up from her blankets. With the nonchalance of an old campaigner, she asked, "Is it time to march, Mama?"

"No, poppet." Catherine kissed her daughter's forehead. After the horrors of the field hospital, it was heaven to hug the child's healthy young body. "I expect we'll stay here today. There's always much to be done after a battle."

Amy regarded her sternly. "You need to sleep. Turn around so I can untie your gown."