Where Dandelions Bloom

by Tara Johnson

  A distant boom shook the air.

  If that explosion meant what she thought it did, they now had a destination as well.

  A wave of dizziness swept over Cassie as she rode the donkey into the valley, the boom of cannons growing louder and more ominous with each passing minute. A column of smoke billowed over the horizon. Flashes of flame, the repetitious clack of small-arms fire, and the shouts of men could barely be heard over the thunderous rumble of earth, whinnying horses, and drumming.

  At her approach, she gave the Union sign to the picket, who nodded and let her pass.

  Captain Johnston saw her, his intense frown melting into relief, though the somber gravity never left his eyes. “Turner. Thank God. I thought you dead.”

  Cassie smiled with shaky lips and saluted. “I thought so too, sir.”

  “I wish there was time for you to rest, but we’re under attack. We need every able-bodied man out there fighting.”

  A wave of fatigue washed over her so hard, it nearly caused her knees to buckle. She nodded and gripped her rifle with stiff fingers. “Yes, sir.”

  “Go.” He pointed. “Take a position behind the far parapet. I need more men on the eastern side.”

  The earth shook. A tree not twenty feet away cracked wide-open, sending splinters and debris flying through the air.

  Bending low, she snaked her way through the hellish chaos, ignoring the acrid stench of gunpowder and the scream of horses. She limped forward but failed to look up. She didn’t see the man in front of her until she collided with his strong body.

  “Turner.”

  She stepped back quickly. Gabe. His green eyes burned like embers.

  He grasped her shoulders, refusing to let go. Something was wrong. “We need to talk.”

  A sharp whistle rent the air. They both ducked. Seconds later, the ground behind them erupted, spraying rocks and soldiers into the air.

  She captured his gaze, panting heavily. “If you haven’t noticed, this isn’t a great time for a chat.”

  “Briggs knows.”

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Cannon fire nearly drowned out his voice. She yelled back, praying she’d misunderstood. “What?”

  Face grim, Gabe shouted, “Briggs knows!”

  Ice water thrust in her face could not have shocked her any more. The world suddenly tilted. She latched on to Gabe’s eyes, seeking his strength. She winced but didn’t break contact when a bullet whizzed by. “What did he say?”

  Gabe hesitated only a moment. “He’s furious and is planning to report you.”

  Nausea bubbled up to her throat. There was no hiding now. She was done for. Her pulse tripped. Breathing became difficult. “How did he find out?”

  Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Gabe said nothing. Not with his lips. His eyes said plenty, however. She could see the guilt in their depths.

  The photograph.

  A numbness stole over her. She could do nothing about it now. All she had was this moment. And in this moment, she had been given her orders. Fight.

  She walked away from him, ignoring his pleas.

  “Turner!”

  She kept walking, though in truth, she didn’t really know where. Didn’t care. Didn’t look for an eastern parapet. Ripping open a cartridge with her teeth, she dumped in the gunpowder and primed her gun before charging into the heat of battle.

  The smoke was so thick, she could barely see. The flash of a bayonet swung near her head. She crouched, her heart pounding when its razor-sharp tip lodged in a tree. All around her were flashes of fire and screams. Blood. She didn’t think. Just pulled the trigger. Over and over.

  Upon reloading, she rose and came face-to-face with a gaunt Rebel with a yellow-toothed grin and a scornful laugh. He held up his rifle, bayonet pointed straight at her, and watched her like a mountain lion preparing to pounce.

  Before he could thrust the weapon through her heart, she lifted her gun and fired. An explosion of crimson and smoke blurred her vision.

  Trembling, she looked down and traced a path to his body. She stepped close and stopped cold.

  Where the left side of his face used to be was an empty shell.

  She was suddenly staring at her old doll Elizabeth, her porcelain face cracked and broken by Father’s temper.

  “I never wanted you, Cassie Kendrick. You’re a disappointment. You always have been. Always will be.”

  Spots danced before her eyes.

  Elizabeth’s pink gown. Her missing eye. The Rebel’s mocking laugh. Her father’s bloodshot eyes. Mother’s cries. Granny’s prayers. Gabe’s gentle kisses. Screams. Shouts.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Slamming her eyes shut and dropping her rifle, she clamped her fists over her ears. She couldn’t breathe. It was too much.

  You must forgive your father.

  As she stumbled through the smoky haze of nightmarish images, her heart beat wildly, too big for her rib cage. She tried to grope her way out of the fevered chaos, and stopped to watch a soldier turn his rifle on himself. Blood spattered as he crumpled to the ground. She dropped to her knees and retched in the grass, clutching fistfuls of churned dirt in her fingers.

  Wiping her sleeve across her mouth, she rose and took shaky steps away. Why couldn’t she find the way out? Panic clawed her throat. Her lungs wheezed. Her stomach cramped.

  “Look at my dandelion crown, Papa. I’m a princess.”

  “Weeds, Cassandra. You’re not a princess, and you never will be. Get those fool notions out of your head. You’re playing dress up with a crown of weeds.”

  Her foot snagged on a fallen body and she collapsed onto the dirt with a grunt. She pushed herself to her knees, shuddering, and turned to see who it belonged to.

  Her blood grew cold.

  Jonah lay in the middle of the field on his side, his bright eyes vacant. A pool of crimson spread across his chest. Clutched in his right hand was the gold pocket watch she’d given him.

  A scream ripped the air. It took a long moment before she realized it was her own. Salt filled her mouth. Tearing her fingers through her hair, she yanked off her kepi and cast it away, her body heaving. She gathered his little body up in her arms and rocked him, sobbing as she rested her head against his.

  Jonah would have fussed over the attention in life. In death, he made no protest.

  She carried Jonah’s thin body away from the carnage that had descended in the Shenandoah. Away from death and disease and hate. Away from revenge. No more. She wanted no more of it.

  Time slowed and ceased. How much time had passed? She didn’t notice the shifting position of the sun or the moon, nor the rise or fall of temperatures as she walked. Hunger, thirst, pain, fatigue . . . all of it had vanished. Perhaps she was dead as well. She expected death to feel cold. Not like this. Not this sensation of aimless, numb wandering.

  She buried him beyond the valley, behind an abandoned farmhouse, assured his body was given the respect he deserved. As she swiped away the thick blur of tears from her eyes, still more sobs burned for release. Cannons pounded in the distance, drawing closer. She couldn’t think. Her empty belly cramped. Maybe the sensation meant she lived after all.

  Wandering into the broken-down house, she rummaged through a dusty pantry and found several jars of canned peaches, a jar of corn, and one of applesauce. The windows rattled as artillery shook the house to its foundation. The battle was devouring the valley like the tide lapping up sand on the beach. The farmhouse would soon be swallowed. She should rejoin the Michigan Second.

  Yet her feet refused to obey.

  Gathering up the cans and a tattered old quilt, she slipped outside and pulled on the rusty latch of the root cellar. She stepped in, letting the damp, loamy aroma of earth soothe her frayed nerves. Sinking down to the bottom, she dropped the quilt and its contents in her lap, thankful for its warmth. With shaking hands, she strained and popped open a can, lifting it to her lips in the darkness. The sweet cinnamon taste of applesauce coated her tongue. S
he gulped down the contents with such speed, she feared she might cast them up moments later.

  The cellar door overhead rattled as artillery roared beyond the ridge. Tiny flecks of earth rained down, pelting the skin of her face and arms. She pushed the empty jar aside, tugged the quilt up to her shoulders, and hunkered down, blinking the grit away from her eyes.

  “I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust.”

  The verse rolled through her mind, pushing away gruesome images and shrill screams that refused to quit tormenting her.

  “Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence.”

  The ground rumbled around her. She dug her fingers into the old quilt, her breath coming in hot puffs.

  “Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day.”

  The wail of artillery sounded overhead. Cracking trees. Whinnying horses. The sharp snap of the drummers. Pounding feet. Her stomach soured. She pinched her eyes shut.

  “A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.”

  Dirt crumbled down, tickling her face and burrowing into her hair. She rocked back and forth, head between her knees, murmuring, “Please, God, help me. I’m undone. Something is wrong. I can’t do this anymore. Help me.”

  You must forgive your father.

  Her throat burned with unshed tears.

  I love you. I will sustain you.

  Her heart twisted. She was weary of the burden. So tired of the pain and hurt. She couldn’t walk another step under its oppressive weight. She lifted her face upward in the inky blackness of the cellar. Pinpricks of light pierced the outline of the cellar door.

  “I don’t know how to forgive him. The pain is so deep.” Her voice cracked, breaking into shards as more artillery shrieked outside.

  “For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. . . .”

  A hot tear escaped her lashes, tracing a warm path down her cheek. Yes, her father had abused her over and over again. He’d sliced her apart with his words, his fists, his negligence, and nearly every other conceivable way. Forgiving him didn’t excuse him. But it would free her.

  “And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.”

  “I’ve lied and deceived, run away and refused to forgive. I’ve killed and done more in the past year than I’d ever dreamed myself capable of. And though it was in the name of war, I still have blood on my hands. Forgive me, Lord.” Her breath caught, a harsh sob hitching in her chest as she choked.

  I love you.

  “I forgive my father!”

  Cleansing sobs racked her body as she curled into a ball and fell against the cellar floor, puddled in the musty quilt. A peace long dormant washed over her in warm, tingling waves. Love and tender comfort curled like tendrils around her heart.

  When she released the last heft of air, a sweet sleepiness tugged her into an embrace. For the first time in months, she fell into a deep, blissful sleep.

  Gabe scrubbed his hands through his rain-soaked hair, frustration gnawing at his middle. The battle had raged for days, shifting and moving in increments over farmland and valleys, until the Confederates had finally given up and fled, leaving only destroyed fields, bloated corpses, and exhausted Union soldiers in their wake. At last the cacophony of wailing from the dying wounded had fallen into a sacred silence.

  The casualty list was still being amassed and the tally of missing soldiers continued to grow, but Thomas Turner’s name was not listed. Gabe had scoured every square inch of land Cassie’s boots might have touched and had uncovered nothing. He’d searched every hospital tent, every ambulance, every stretch of field, and every bloodied corpse he could find. It was as if she had vanished into thin air.

  His heart still stung at the loss of young Jonah. Captain Johnston had been informed that his messenger boy was presumed dead, though his body had yet to be found. Strange. Two full days after the Confederate retreat, he should have been discovered.

  Chest aching, Gabe trudged back to the Whatsit, his mind unable to rest. Cassie was alive. He could sense it. But where?

  He looked up into the murky clouds and blinked against the rain sprinkling his face. Lord, I need you. I’ve been a fool. Nothing else matters but following you and loving her. Help me.

  Chapter 40

  CASSIE WASN’T SURE if she’d slept for hours or days. It didn’t matter. Stretching her stiff, sore limbs, she let the warmth of the quilt fall away as cool air rushed in. A sense of peace enveloped her, despite the darkness of the cellar. She smiled.

  Thank you, Father God. Thank you for loving me. For your patience. Transform me into the image of your Son. Continue to teach me how to forgive.

  Her stomach rumbled as she groped for another of the jars she’d carried down and fumbled with the lid. It finally gave, and she lifted the jar to her lips and smiled when the sweet taste of peaches greeted her. Eating her fill, she licked the remaining syrup from her grimy fingers. All was quiet outside. Did she dare peek?

  The need to use the necessary eradicated any further hesitancy. She climbed the cellar steps and pushed against the door, wincing when it creaked loudly. Bright daylight assaulted her, caused her a moment of blindness as she blinked away the black spots dancing before her. Vision sharpening, she saw cracked, split trees and patches of black earth where yellow grass once grew. Cannonball holes gaped through several outbuildings, and the main farmhouse had been riddled along its west side with bullet holes. No bodies, dead or alive, greeted her.

  She eased the cellar door shut and picked her way across the yard, first to the necessary and then to the pump. She drew a bucket of water before slipping into the abandoned house. If Thomas Turner was gone, the first order of business would be new clothes and a plan. Rummaging through a trunk, she found a faded pink gown that would serve. After washing up, she brushed her shoulder-length brown curls until they shone and studied her reflection in the cracked looking glass with a critical eye.

  Thomas Turner was dead. Gone and buried. She had no schedule to keep. No morning reveille or roll call to maintain. She was really and truly free.

  Yet she couldn’t stay here. This house had been vacated, but it wasn’t hers. She smoothed the wrinkled skirt fabric. What do you want me to do, Lord?

  She watched her blue eyes stare back at her.

  Return home.

  Her heart beat faster. Go home? Back to Father? Back to the nightmare and abuse?

  Has my arm been shortened? Is my power limited?

  But what of Gabe, Lord?

  I have not forgotten.

  Cassie squared her shoulders, releasing a shaky breath, and nodded at the woman in the glass.

  She would return home. And this time, there would be no lies.

  OCTOBER 29, 1862

  HOWELL, MICHIGAN

  She rapped on Granny’s cabin door with tight knuckles, grasping her lone bag and clamping her chattering teeth together. Icy wind slithered up her skirt as she waited. No footfalls sounded on the other side. The cabin windows were dark. Cold and unwelcoming.

  Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she rapped harder. She jiggled the stiff doorknob, but it held fast. Unease crawled over her. Where was Granny? The sun had only just set.

  Light footsteps approached from somewhere deep in the cabin. Her trapped breath released a puff of air.

  “Who’s there?”

  Cassie frowned. The voice didn’t belong to Granny. It was far too young. “It’s Cassie.”

  The door creaked open, revealing a drawn, weary-looking woman. Cassie blinked. “Jane?”

  Her sister placed trembling fingers to her mouth. “Cassie?”

  With a rush, they embraced. Cassie’s throat grew thick as Jane stepped back and wiped away tears with a watery smile. “Come in. You must be freezing
.”

  Ushered into the cabin’s warmth, Cassie sighed with pleasure. The scents from her childhood wrapped her in an embrace, chasing away the demons of the past two years. For a few moments, anyway.

  Red embers glowed in the fireplace. Jane leaned over and, grabbing the poker, stoked them back to life. She added a couple more logs to the fire and dusted her hands, wrapping the shawl back around her shoulders and watching Cassie as if she feared she were a phantom who might vanish.

  “It’s good to see you, Cass.”

  Cassie smiled, thankful Jane was the sister here to greet her. Of all her siblings, they were the two who got along best. “It’s good to see you too, Janie.”

  “When you first took off, I feared the worst.”

  Heat crept up her neck. “I’ll tell you about that soon. But first I must see Granny. Where is she?”

  Jane’s gaze darted away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Jane sighed. “Granny is . . . not well. Last month she suffered a stroke and hasn’t been the same since.”

  Cassie felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. “How sick is she?”

  Jane’s eyes filled with compassion, knowing the news was difficult to hear. “She needs constant care. Eliza, Eloise, Nellie, and I . . . we all take turns being away from our families to care for her.”

  It wasn’t possible. Not Granny. Not the undefeatable woman she knew. “I want to see her.”

  Jane watched her for a long moment, then nodded, preceding her to Granny’s small bedroom tucked in the back of the cabin. She placed a gentle hand on Cassie’s arm just outside the door. “Prepare yourself, Cass. She won’t know you.”

  Cassie lifted her chin. “She’ll know me.”

  Jane said nothing as Cassie opened the door.

  An oil lamp burned on the bedside table, casting honeyed light over the room and illuminating a tiny figure swallowed up by the bed. Easing to the bedside, Cassie leaned over and choked back tears.

  Granny was there, staring at her, her bright-blue eyes watching, moving, yet not. Her white hair was splayed against her down pillow. She looked fragile and thin atop the soft mattress.