by Kim Bowman
Marek fell to his back, placing his hands beneath his head to watch her rise from the bed. The sun cut through her chemise, her perfect silhouette swaying with her hips. “Bring her some flowers from the garden for me then, would you?”
“Aye, I will,” she replied, slipping into her skirt. After securing it about her waist, she stepped into her shoes then crossed the room to give Marek one last kiss. “Scrub well,” she teased, “and I will show you just how much I have missed you.”
“Anything for you, love.” He watched her saunter from the room and smiled. Perhaps the gods did shine upon him after all.
~~~~
The ocean waves crashed against the sea wall, spraying her with a fine, salty mist. Upon reaching the rock, Brynn knelt in front of it, placing the bouquet of wildflowers at its base. “These are from Marek,” she told the rock. “He would never admit to it, but I know he misses you. I miss you, too, Abby.” Brynn kissed her palm then transferred the kiss to the gravestone. “May the gods bless you, my dear friend, as they have blessed me.”
We ask the gods be kind and watch us from above.
We pray each soul finds love.
Bless those we love and keep watch over those that lose their way.
Let this be our prayer.
About the Author
Melissa grew up surrounded by dragons, fearsome creatures, and damsels in distress from the wonderful world of make believe. She soon found her ideas on paper, littering her desk with world maps and character biographies. Study hall was used not for homework but for writing. Although she pursued a career in theater, the written word never left her. Melissa now leads a full life with her husband and children (five amazingly adorable clones to be exact), though she still finds time to write in her “spare time.” She sports a Military Wife badge of honor and is lucky enough to have her own knight in camo armor.
Melissa enjoys reading everything from sexy, sword-toting heroes to spit-out-your coffee funny romantic comedies. Her passion lies within the ancient walls of fantasy and historical fiction, where anything is possible.
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Olivia’s Journey
by B. G. Lashbrooks
Chapter One
My uncle would kill him if he saw him, so I hid him down in the barn on Jessup Mill’s farm. Jessup had had a heart palpitation after receiving word that both his twin boys had fallen in Maryland; he’d died less than a week later. Jessup’s place had been empty ever since and was the only place I could think of to hide him. As I led him down the path connecting my uncle’s place to the barn, it started raining and I could barely see the path before me. He faltered in the mud and I began dragging him along.
I dropped him just outside the barn doors. I hadn’t meant to, but he was so heavy and with the rain making holding him difficult, he slid right from my arms. Finally, though, I got him inside the old building; I settled him in the back stall on old hay and covered him with tattered old horse blankets I found stacked in the corner. I rested myself for several moments; then, breathing ragged, I rose and began to tend him.
My hands hesitated on the top buttons of his uniform ¯ whether from the gray color so reviled in this section of the Ohio Valley or from the dark stain of blood so dark against the faded material, I didn’t know. I had never seen a man without a shirt before, not even my father or brother before they had died. Yet I knew this soldier was dying and no one else in the town would help him.
So many men lost to this damned war! When was it going to end? I wasn’t about to let it take another, not when I could possibly stop it. The fighting had already taken my brother and two cousins within hours of each other, and I was determined it would take no other, not while I could do something to stop it.
As I unbuttoned his shirt, he looked at me; his eyes were so black from the fever within him that I nearly cried. I did my best to reassure him, but he didn’t understand my trying to help; he struggled and tried to rise and I pushed him back down onto the straw. He moaned and fell unconscious; I managed to get his shirt off and the blood was horrible! It terrified me for a moment, but I soon realized the injury wasn’t as severe as I’d first thought.
I washed his face and hair, with water I had pumped from the well right outside the barn door. Then I forced myself to wash lower and ran the rag over his chest. Thank God the blood was slowing and that it wasn’t a bullet causing the bleeding. I knew I’d never be able to remove a bullet from a man’s body ¯ I just couldn’t. His wound was probably from a blade of sort ¯ maybe a bayonet. I rolled him onto his side, checking to see if the bayonet had pierced his back. It hadn’t.
I washed all the blood away, and then ripped my undergarment into strips for bandages. The material was damp, but clean.
I couldn’t stay too much longer ¯ my uncle would be furious if I was late in preparing supper. I felt torn. This man needed me, but the last time my uncle was angry with me he’d locked me in the root cellar for two days ¯ without food, and without light. The dark was the worst. I could handle being hungry, but the dark ¯ it did something to me. I covered the soldier, pulling large bundles of straw around him to keep him warm in the cool night air. I didn’t want to leave him, but knew I must.
That night I waited until my sisters and my uncle’s family had fallen asleep, then crept out of the house. The small pack I carried contained sewing thread and a needle on the chance that the wound needed sewing, a small bottle of spirits my uncle kept in the root cellar, clean bandages, two small blankets, and some biscuits and cheese. I carried it close to my body as I hurried down the path, thankful the rains had subsided and the clouds rolled away as quickly as they had come in. The moon shone enough that I didn’t have any hardship seeing as I made my way.
I slid the barn door open and entered the stifling darkness. I didn’t want to light a lamp ¯ the barn was full of tinder just waiting for a spark¯but I did. The last thing I wanted was for someone to investigate a fire at Jessup’s place with the soldier and myself still in the barn. I left the lamp as dim as I could get it and I could barely see as I made my way to the end stall. I expected to find him still unconscious ¯ his body needed to rest for proper healing to take place. Halfway to the last stall, a large arm came around my neck and I screamed. My entire body shook, feeling the hardness of his chest pressed against my back. I hadn’t been held that close since the spring I turned sixteen and my father had lifted me onto my horse with instructions to ride as fast and as far as I could, my sisters in tow. I never saw him after that.
“Who are you?” The man’s voice was low, his breath touching my ear. “Where exactly am I?”
“Indiana. Royle County, near Lofton.” Fear broke my words. “I found you by the river, brought you here. Don’t you remember?”
“I was in Brandenburg with my men.”
“Why would I lie? I bandaged your chest, and now I’ve brought you something to eat.”
He said not a word, instead tearing the bundle from my arms and attacking it. The biscuits and cheese were clutched in his fists, everything else falling to the packed dirt floor. He devoured the meager fare, acting as if he’d not eaten in days. Judging by the unnatural thinness of his frame, he most likely hadn’t. His frame was that of a stocky man, yet his uniform pants bagged and his cheeks were hollow.
As he ate, I took a much closer look at him, noticing for the first time the slight silvering at his temples; I estimated him to be nearly ten years older than myself. Lines bracketed both his mouth and eyes, and dark hair curled over his brow. His lips were thin and firm. Stubble outlined his jaw, making him look interesting and rugged. He was probably a handsome man ¯ in better times ¯ but the war had taken its toll, changing him the way it had so many. The lamplight was kind to him, giving his face interesting planes and shadows.
“Did you bring anything else?” He looked up at me and I almost smiled at the crumbs clinging to his lips. His
stomach growled, and I felt suddenly ashamed that I had eaten a large dinner with ham, potatoes, carrots, and fresh biscuits. I shook my head, lowering my eyes.
He grunted, and then bent down, retrieving the bottle of homemade liquor. I’d brought it to use as antiseptic, not for drinking.
“This’ll help.” He uncorked the bottle and raised it to his lips.
“You really shouldn’t.” I stepped closer, then tried to take the bottle from his hands. He held it out of my reach.
“Why’d you bring it then? If not for drinking, what’s it for?” He pronounced the word as fowa, in a thick accent as he held the bottle well out of my reach.
“To clean the wound, fight gangrene. My mother always said keeping a wound clean makes it heal faster. You don’t want to be drunk if someone finds you¯they’d shoot you on sight just for wearing that gray around here. That’s why I didn’t send for the doctor. He’d be the first to string you up.”
“What would you have said if I’d died?”
“That I’d found your dead body, of course,” I answered, becoming angry at his cavalier attitude ¯ I’d save his life, shouldn’t he appreciate that?
He lifted the bottle to his lips and I frowned. My only experience with drunkenness was the binges my uncle routinely engaged in. As he took the first swallow, I begged, “Please?”
He glanced at the bottle then back to me, before shaking his head. He handed the bottle back and I tucked it under my apron, thanking him before settling down on a patch of hay. I didn't know what else to say.
I worried the faded cloth of my skirt between my fingers. Made of blue muslin, it showed its age in the worn threads and tattered hem. I looked at the man and saw what I thought was derision; I felt so shamed.
“When are you leaving?” I demanded. I felt awkward and appalled when I saw the surprise and momentary hurt enter his eyes. I rose to my feet, looking away from him as I did. His hand on my arm stopped my journey to the door.
I glanced at him, but what I saw reflected in the light’s dim glow frightened me and I averted my gaze as quickly as I could. I shook his hand from my sleeve and ran out of the barn.
I returned home and undressed, careful not to wake my younger sisters in the old feather bed in the small room we all shared. After brushing the brown hair so much like my mother’s, I slid into my own corner bed’s waiting warmth, wishing for a calm night. I tried to sleep but my mind was filled with the man’s image and what would happen on the sunrise.
The next morning I completed my chores with more than the usual amount of care; I did not want to earn my uncle’s censure or attention. I’d forgotten my sewing supplies in my haste last eve and I had to retrieve them before they were found and recognized. The small pouch I carried my threads and needles in was embroidered with my mamma and papa’s names and the anniversary of their wedding. If someone from my uncle’s family found them they’d know they were mine; if the Confederate was found there as well, it would mean much trouble for me.
Trouble was something I did not need.
I finished up the breakfast dishes and dried my hands with a small towel and gathered up the last of the ham and eggs, wrapping them in a clean cloth. I would take the food to the man before he went on his way, a gesture of good will to make up for my rudeness from before.
“What are you doing, girl?” My uncle’s voice was harsh in my ear and I startled, pulling against the hand he’d wrapped around my arm. I knew I’d have yet another bruise.
“Feeding the barn cats, sir.” I kept my eyes lowered respectfully, hoping he’d not see the lie written on my face. I was a poor liar, and I knew it.
“Don’t waste good food on them damned cats. Feed it to the dogs instead. Get your sister off to the school and get yourself to the store. I need some tobacco, and be sure not to skimp on my change.” He threw several coins my way and I gathered them as he went out into the morning sun to see to the planting.
I gave thanks for the excuse to be gone from the farm in mid-morning. I went into the bedroom and instructed Rachel and Amelia to hurry, that Uncle wanted them gone. They complied, as eager as I to be away from the farm.
Soon Amelia was on her way to the schoolhouse, and Rachel to the church ¯ where she did charitable works along with the reverend’s wife, and I was just about on my way to the mercantile ¯ via the path through Jessup Mill’s farm.
I gathered the food scraps quickly and added a stale biscuit from the tin by the window, the soldier’s thin shoulders clear in my mind. I heard a noise from the back of the house and I paused, expecting my aunt to appear with one of her multiple demands. When she did not I gave a sigh of relief, grateful for my aunt’s slovenly ways. Of course, why should she leave her bed before ten when she had three orphaned nieces who needed to earn their keep? I added two more biscuits for good measure, careful to redistribute the remaining bread so my gluttonous aunt wouldn’t realize any were missing.
I started out the door and down the dirt path; Cotton, my uncle’s oldest dog, soon joined me. My uncle had wanted to shoot him when he’d gotten his back leg caught in a trap. I’d begged him not to and the dog had been my constant companion ever since. He earned his keep, though, as an excellent watch dog ¯ so my uncle couldn’t complain too awful much.
“You walking with me today, old Cotton?” The dog often played and hunted rodents down on Jessup’s farm and would be a familiar sight to anyone who happened by. Jessup’s farm sat right in the middle of three others. His was the smallest and the other three ¯ my uncle’s, Mr. Lofton’s, and old Ezra Nems’ places all nudged up against the now abandoned property. All three men were now pushing and pulling to get a hold of Jessup’s place. Greedy, all of them. Greedy, greedy men.
We walked quickly down the path, yet I was careful to appear nonchalant, in the event anyone noticed me. I opened the door after checking to ensure no one else was about. I closed it behind myself, leaving the dog outside with the command to guard.
“Hello?” I asked, careful to keep my voice from echoing. If someone found me here, I’d be beaten and turned to the streets ¯ Rachel and Amelia along side me. “Are you here?”
I felt ridiculous at asking such a question, especially if the Confederate had left. If he had, he’d not get far ¯ his body was not sufficiently healed, by my reckoning. I searched the first two horse stalls, looking for my belongings from last evening or some other sign of the soldier’s presence. I had to give him praise ¯ if he was indeed still in Jessup’s barn, he hid the evidence well. Something rustled in the back of the barn that sounded too large to be a rat, and I hurried to the end of the stalls, expecting to find him there.
A hard arm snagged my waist, bunching my apron under my breasts; a large hand covered my mouth. I shook, terrified, until I saw the gray sleeve and knew it was him.
“Why did you come back? Were you followed?” The hand over my mouth lowered and his other arm ¯ the one around my middle ¯ loosened and I could breathe again. He shook me when I didn't answer. “Tell me.”
“No, no. I brought you food.” I squirmed, uncomfortable being held so tightly. I felt odd standing in this strange embrace. Much aware of his size and scorched by his heat against my back, I struggled to breathe against the arm strong around my waist. His breath touched my neck, tickling the tiny hairs there. I couldn’t help myself ¯ I shivered again, this time from an emotion far different from fear, though I couldn’t determine just what it was exactly.
“Why were you so foolish? I thought I’d seen the last of you yesterday. Don’t you know it’s not safe for you to be here?” He turned me around to face him, much stronger than I thought his wound would allow.
“I didn’t want anyone to find my sewing notions, they might be recognized.” I tried to pull away from him. He smelled of leather and heat and straw¯a strange and appealing scent. He must have washed himself up some this morning; though his clothes were still dusty and now covered with straw, his hair was wet and slicked back, coal black in the morning light. �
��I thought you might need something to eat. Let me free!”
He released me and I stumbled. He stopped my fall, grabbing my arm in the same place my uncle had just a day or so earlier for some infraction I could not remember. I pulled away, rubbing my arm as I did so.
“I didn’t hurt you. I couldn’t have.” He stepped toward me, grabbing my arm again before I had time to react. He scowled at the dark marking. A clear imprint of a hand was visible. “Who did this?”
“My uncle. May I have my things back, please?”
“Why? Why did he do that, I mean?”
“No reason. My uncle doesn’t need a reason. I live on his charity, that's reason enough.” I tried to move around him, but he stopped me.
“Why do you stay? Where is your father?” He was so big that I couldn’t maneuver past him.
“My parents are gone.” I moved to a pile of hay in the corner, desperate to put a little space between us. He’d slept on this pile and I began mussing the straw, erasing any sign of him. “And I have two younger sisters who also live on Uncle's charity.”
“No husband? You’re old enough, and more than passable.”
“You’re too kind, sir. And that’s none of your business, is it?”
“Answer me.” Apparently, he was long accustomed to giving orders and expected me to obey.
“Because no one has dared ask me!” I blurted my secret shame. I had been in love once ¯ until my cousin Beatrice had convinced Mark to court her instead. Beatrice was now expecting her first child and my uncle had promised Jessup Mill’s place to Mark. My eyes began to water as I thought of my heartache two years ago when they’d married. I turned so he wouldn’t see.
