Knowing he lacked the maturity of romance given his young age of one and twenty, he had poured countless hours into this meeting, into her surprise.
He crossed the street and smiled thinking of the way she would throw her head back in laughter, and jump into his arms. Never a conventional bride, she didn’t care a whit about propriety and often kissed him in public, much to the ton's dismay.
He wanted one of her kisses now. Needed to taste her lips.
Hunter pulled out his pocket watch and examined the numbers. A tad late, he had spent a ridiculous amount of time picking out her favorite flowers and daydreaming on the way to their meeting place.
As he crossed the final street to Gunther's, he watched as Lucy waved wildly in the other direction. She raised both hands high above her head, frantically aiming for someone’s attention. He picked up his pace. Excitement overtaking him, as he watched his tiny wife begin to jump up and down. Something must be truly exciting her for her to be acting so rash. Truthfully, her behavior was reminiscent of when she saw him for the first time after being away for weeks.
And then, she stomped her tiny foot, and began marching across the street.
Alarmed, he began to run.
But it was too late.
The carriage was moving too fast. She looked to her left just in time for the carriage to jolt out of the way, but not enough.
She fell to the ground.
Hunter swore, his legs feeling like lead as he screamed and ran to her side. Blood trickled from her mouth; her petite body was bent at an odd angle. Tears streamed down his face into his mouth, the taste of salt revolting, for it reeked of her death.
“Lucy, love, can you hear me? Everything is going to be fine, just fine.” He grasped her lifeless hand. She tried to shake her head. “Don’t move, just lie still. I love you. I love you so much.”
A single tear ran down her face. “I l-love you.” Voice hoarse and weak, her lips trembled as she tried again to speak. Her breath came out in short gasps.
“No, stay with me, you can’t leave me, Lucy! Do you understand? You can’t, you just can’t.” Hunters tears clouded his vision but not enough, for the last thing he saw was her blue eyes turn lifeless as her chest heaved her last breath.
“No, no!” Hunter wailed, not caring that he was still in the middle of the street. His body trembled. Surely this was a nightmare that he would wake up from! The flowers in his hand, the anniversary flowers, were never meant to cover her grave.
Strong hands grasped his chest, pulling him away from the street. He heard a voice barking orders and looked up into the eyes of his twin brother.
Eyes that held guilt, shame, and remorse. “She thought I was you, I didn’t know, I didn’t...” Ash’s eyes held unshed tears. “I was too late, I didn’t know. Oh no, what have I done?” Ash’s face was pale and haunted as he embraced his brother.
Hunter was unable to say anything. No words would come, nothing. He felt lifeless, an empty void. And he knew, without a doubt, that he would forever remember this day, not purely because the love of his life had died in his arms, but because in her death she had taken his very soul with her.
Never would he be the same.
Available this winter from Astraea Press!
About the Author
Rachel Van Dyken is the USA Today Bestselling author of regency and contemporary romances. When she’s not writing you can find her drinking coffee at Starbucks and plotting her next book while watching The Bachelor.
She keeps her home in Idaho with her husband and their snoring Boxer, Sir Winston Churchill. She loves to hear from readers! You can follow her writing journey at www.rachelvandyken.com/.
Also from Astraea Press
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 wretched 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 some 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 I 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 a
s 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?”
“My name is Olivia, and you’re in Indiana.” 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 and 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. I begged as he took the first swallow, “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 face 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 mama 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 writ on my face. I was a poor liar, and I knew it.
“Don’t waste good food on them 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. Hamer’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 towards 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?”
Whispered Music (London Fairy Tales) Page 22
