by Beth Trissel
He hoisted the saddle in his arms, grabbed the horse blanket, and strode outside. Whew. He whistled softly.
She glowed with as much appeal as the sunny fall day. More. It was all he could do not to drop everything to whirl her in his arms and kiss her, but they were undertaking a serious, quite possibly dangerous, mission.
He needed more information to judge how best to act. Although, he had to admit, what she’d told him was astounding. Unless she truly came from the future, as she’d maintained, he could only think she must be a farsighted seer. Odd, how she spoke of the future as if it were the past. He’d pondered this phenomenon without reaching a definite conclusion.
Maybe she was exactly who she said she was, but it made no sense. She couldn’t journey back and forth in time, as if climbing up and down a staircase. Could she?
How on earth was he to grasp this being that was Evie? The unique girl would confound the wisest among them.
****
Breathing in the fresh earthiness of the meadow, Evie lifted her gaze to the white clouds scudding overhead. The endlessly arching blue sky met the hills rising across the field like a mini Swiss Alps. Gold light gilded the beads of dew sparkling on each blade of grass and shining leaf like jewels sprinkled by the hands of fairies.
Yellow, red, and saffron hues mingling with the green foliage on the trees proclaimed autumn upon them, rather disorienting as it had been June for her only yesterday. The crisp breeze tugging at her hair made her glad for the wool riding habit and kidskin gloves, but this cooler weather was ideal for a canter across the countryside with Jack.
Because of him, her senses were heightened. Everything struck her with greater intensity than before. Colors were brighter, sounds clearer, and scents richer. For better or worse, she was acutely aware and felt more alive than ever.
She smiled up at him. “What a perfect day for riding.”
The wide-brimmed slouch hat shaded his face, and he bore the bridle, saddle, and blanket he’d retrieved from the barn for the mare hidden in the woods. He frowned. “We’re on a mission to gather information, not a pleasure outing.”
Reality came crashing back. “I know, buzzkill, but we can still have fun.”
“Warily,” he emphasized. “And what the Sam Hill is a buzzkill?”
“Wet blanket, killjoy, Debbie downer… You get the drift.”
An expression of wry humor crossed his shadowed eyes. “I grasp your meaning. And don’t call me Debbie. Has a girlish sound.”
“Deal, and it’s only a saying. I’m living now, as you urged me,” she quoted back at him.
“Good to hear. Just keep your wits about you.”
“Done. I’m on it.” But being with Jack was electrifying, and distracting, as was the glorious day.
Lifting her skirts above the sea of grass, she followed at his side, thrilled he’d allowed her to accompany him and not left her behind. She was on an adventure with her rugged cowboy. How cool was that?
He shifted the saddle in his arms. “When we are finished riding, I will conceal this horse tack in the trees with mine. Better the damp than risk the stuff being burned or stolen.”
Tension tightened her spine. “It’s hard to believe such evil is coming with all this beauty around us.”
“You have declared it so,” he said, striding through the grass. “And in my heart, I fear it to be true.”
“Yes.” She quickened her pace to keep up with him. “You saw how near the barn is to the house?”
He answered with a somber nod.
In her mind’s eye, she compared the Wengers’ red barn with the one on Grandma G.’s herb farm. “Depending on the wind, fire could spread between the two structures. The barn built in its place stands farther away.”
The bridle jingled as he walked. “Perhaps from a sad lesson learned.
“Perhaps. The proximity of the two buildings might be how the house catches fire, if the soldiers didn’t intentionally set the blaze. I recall accounts of men who did that very thing, even going from room to room and kindling a fire to be certain it took. Heartless.”
“War brings out the worst in men. Yet there are those who resist the call to darkness.” He spoke as if from experience.
“True. Not all soldiers in the accounts I’ve heard were said to be callous,” she admitted. “Some even refused to take part in the Burning, or did the least harm they could, but the sadists in the ranks reveled in their cruelty.”
Jack wore the look of one who had witnessed the darkest souls in action. “This can be said of both sides in this bloody conflict.”
“I can well imagine.” They walked on in silence, the country sounds resonating around them.
Elusive meadowlarks trilled from the grass bending in the wind. Somewhere a hound bayed. A horse whinnied. Chickens clucked and squabbled from the barnyard they’d left behind them. Quacking ducks flew past with that peculiar wobble in their flight, and a long V of geese honked overhead.
An idyllic scene, if only the war would leave this lush valley alone.
Baa! A wooly ewe scuttled aside at their approach and startled Evie. She lost her footing on the slick grass and lurched forward, stumbling on her hem.
“Careful.” Jack snaked out his hand to grab her arm, and kept her from smacking on the wet ground.
“Thanks,” she gasped, regaining her balance. “These darn skirts will be the death of me.”
“Stay alert. We scarcely know what day it is, let alone when the Boys in Blue are coming.”
“True.” She only had a vague recollection of dates. “The war seems leagues away on this pristine morning.”
“It’s not.”
“No.” The warning inside told her otherwise, like a tolling bell.
They crossed the meadow, the ground sloping as they neared the hills. They began the ascent. His long strides covered ground faster than her shorter legs, and she swept her skirts away from rocks in the limestone outcropping.
As they proceeded, he angled glances over his shoulder and side-to-side, while eyeing the woods ahead. Did he expect someone to show himself? Sam Hobbs, from last night, perhaps?
Jack slowed and let her catch her breath. “Be vigilant. Remember, Rebel guerillas could appear from anywhere, in either direction.”
“A grave reminder, and difficult for me to grasp.” She found herself falling into old-fashioned phrasing, perhaps from the past life she didn’t really remember. “These woods appear much as they do in the future. I have picked violets here in the spring and teaberries in autumn and they have always been quite safe.”
“It’s not the trees that do the attacking, Evie.”
“No. Despite the danger, or perhaps because of it, this lovely place seems dearer to me, and I feel responsible for it. In a way, this is my home. Yours, too.”
His pensive air indicated he was considering her claim. “I have a cabin in the mountains.”
“You had this home first, way back when. We both did,” she reasoned.
He slowly inclined his head, a depth of emotion behind his silent concession.
Satisfied with his acknowledgement, she turned toward the patchwork of fields below them. The golden-brown stubble from harvested crops spread alongside green meadows. In the distance, fields outlined by rail fences contained sheep, cows, and horses. Much of the harvested grain had been stored in barns. Here and there, sheaves of wheat stood bundled together with their heads upright. She also spotted corn shocks.
What artistic arrangements, and so fallish. She didn’t see these much in modern-day fields, though Grandma G. had as a girl. Cooing gray doves fluttered between the sheaves in search of spilled seed. Reddish brown and white quail darted among the other foragers. The doves were familiar, but bobwhite had grown scarce in the valley of the future.
Admiration welled in her. “How beautiful.”
“Yes. Farmers work hard to tend the land and suffer the most when it’s trampled by war. See the stooks?” He pointed at the autumnal mounds.
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“You mean the shocks?”
“Same thing,” he said. “Stooks is a German expression. They are left to dry for later use.”
“Only later won’t come for these unfortunate folks, and harvest has been good, by the looks of it. How unfair, Jack.”
He gave a solemn nod. “Aye. Crops are among the very best, which means winter will be extra hard this year. Nature compensates.”
“But man doesn’t.” She recoiled at the thought of the misery to come. “The fruits of their labor will be torn from these people, and there aren’t enough places to hide such abundance.”
“Only a fraction of the crops can be saved, even with warning. Let us learn all we can about Sheridan’s actions, then we will better be able to plan.” He spoke in the calm manner of a man accustomed to reasoning.
Regret needled her. “You need specifics, and I only remember fragments.”
He paused. “Perhaps more will occur to you.”
“More than I thought possible already has.” She puzzled over the gaps in her memory. “Can I expect greater recall, do you suppose?”
“We shall see.” With the ghost of a smile, he gestured ahead at the thick woods. “The horses are hidden there. When danger nears, we hide them in a sinkhole among the trees.”
“How do you get the horses in it without breaking their legs?”
He gave her a look. “It’s not that deep, more of a large bowl in the earth that they can be led in and out of. When they are in the sinkhole they know to be quiet.”
“Really?” She was impressed. “That’s perceptive of them.”
“Horses have more sense than many people.” Disdain edged his observation.
“I agree.” She studied the tossing branches for any suspicious movement, detected only squirrels scurrying up a scarlet oak, and returned her attention to the vista spreading beyond them.
While the land was idyllically pastoral in the future, it was simpler now, like The Shire in The Lord of the Rings. These country folk, especially the Mennonites and other plain people, reminded her a little of the Hobbits. They were equally unprepared for what was bearing down on them.
A dirt road ran past the farm, the grassy verge starred with goldenrod, late Queen Anne’s lace, and fluffy white milkweed pods bending in the wind. When taken in a westerly direction, the earthen track led to the Alleghenies. If followed the opposite way, the road ran to the town of Harrisonburg, the seat of Rockingham County, and their destination.
God only knew who they’d meet on their ride, but Jack said Harrisonburg was the place to discover what was afoot. Unless they encountered someone en route who could provide the answers, he’d added.
If only they were going for a joy ride instead of facing possible life and death situations. Being a former Confederate officer, now Unionist guide scouting for information, Jack was at greater risk than she. Either side could take him for a member of the other. She hoped by being with him, she could help defray violence, while realizing it was a stretch.
She surveyed the route they must take. “I cannot say for certain when rough men clad in blue will appear to destroy this Eden.”
He waved at the road. “Not yet. We can see for miles from this vantage point. I only detect a farmer hauling hay in a wagon, and girls herding sheep across the road.”
Her gaze traveled more distantly than ever in this unpolluted terrain. “Yes. The land is much the same as this in the future, except my grandmother’s herb farm is tucked in among the other holdings.”
“What else is changed?” He seemed genuinely curious.
“We have tall wooden poles with wires strung between them to carry electricity, and telephone lines, for one thing.”
“Unknown to me.”
“Not for long. Enormous inventions are coming to America after the war,” she said. “But I like this uncluttered landscape. We also have farm machinery, cars, trucks, wire fences, lofty silos, signs, and other modern additions.”
A frown tightened his mouth. “What if you do not want these things?”
“There is only so much we can do without, unless we live way back in the mountains. Then you can escape.”
Relief tinged his gaze. “Good. There is a way out.”
“Yes, and some Mennonites and Amish still live much as they are now.” She studied him earnestly. “I really think you would like a pickup truck, though.”
He met her gaze with bemusement on his face. “I have no knowledge of what you speak.”
“I pray you will.”
Gravity darkened his eyes a deeper shade of greenish-brown. “If I wish to remain here, will you stay with me?”
A sinking sensation weighed her chest. She loathed telling him the truth, and hesitated, then plunged ahead like a bolting horse. “You can’t stay here much longer, Jack, even if I agreed.”
His scrutiny intensified. “Why is that?”
“You don’t survive this war. Grandma G. told me. And there are some things history refuses to alter.”
“Huh.” A breathy exhalation escaped him, and his shoulders sagged. “Not one for holding back, are you?”
“No.” Hating herself, she pressed on. “So, when it’s time for us to go to the future, please come with me. I will get us through.”
A dubious glint flickered in his eyes. “How can you be certain?”
“I’m not. But Grandma G. is, and she has a way of being right. And, in her, we must trust.”
His forehead creased beneath his hat, and he pursed his lips. “What of God? I’m not a complete heathen.”
“Nor I, and I expect God sent me. It’s all kind of mixed up.”
“It certainly is,” he said in clipped accents. “Come on. Let’s saddle those horses. We will be all day if we stand about talking.” Straightening his shoulders, he strode ahead.
“But Jack—” Evie broke off. This wasn’t the time. Abandoning her plea, she hastened after him.
Chapter Ten
In the woods above the Wenger farm, small whirlwinds Evie called dust devils spun the first fallen leaves. The rich scent of crumbling earth and living plants rode on the strong breeze. Glances between the furrowed trunks revealed scenery much the same as she recalled from recent memory. It was reassuring to see the woods were largely unchanged.
Drifts of fern traced with tawny hues grew among the velvety moss. Creeping wintergreen plants dotted with the red berries she enjoyed picking trailed over the leafy ground. Purple asters and yellow daisy-like flowers flourished where the sunlight slanted through the leafy canopy. Mitten-shaped sassafras leaves fluttered alongside silvery barked sycamores and sweet gums with their spiky balls. Maples changing into vivid autumn colors kept company with red and bronze oaks. Tossing evergreens were interspersed throughout.
Tiny chipmunks scurried over a lichen encrusted log and squirrels ran up and down the trees gathering nuts for winter storage. Late butterflies fluttered above dappled blossoms, some of the ephemeral creatures more brightly colored than the flowers they visited. Everywhere, birds created a symphony of sound.
Such a serene spot. A secluded picnic with Jack would be heaven, but they couldn’t stop now. Thirsty from the uphill walk, beating at skirts whipping in the wind, she’d sipped from his tin, drum-shaped canteen. The metallic flavored water in the Confederate container reminded her a little of her late grandfather’s Marine Corps canteen. She well recalled its tepid metallic taste.
A last glance around the comforting woods and she prodded herself into action. While Jack held the mare’s head, stroking her muzzle and soothing her with quiet words, she fit her boot into the stirrup and swung herself into the saddle. Polly hadn’t ever been ridden by a woman in a riding habit before, and never by Evie. The mare was also reluctant to leave her six-month-old chestnut colt. The leggy boy was tethered near the big reddish-brown draft horse, Bill, who had the temperament of a teddy bear. Bill helped steady the foal, and the mare would soon settle down. If all went as planned, the three horses would be reunite
d by late afternoon.
If… The uncertain word circled in Evie’s mind like the swirling leaves.
She adjusted her skirts on either side of the mare, making sure the fabric fell evenly without a display of her legs. The breeze didn’t assist her efforts at modesty. Even though she wore leather pants under her habit, she didn’t want to shock the locals any more than she already was. After the Wengers’ jaw-dropping reaction to her attire at breakfast, she no longer questioned her likely effect on the wider community.
Crop in hand, she firmed her grip on the reins. “I’m as ready as I’m going to be, Jack.”
A brief but glorious smile lit his face. “A rare vision , like an exotic butterfly.”
His praise was a warm washing wave, but she wanted to be taken seriously. “Not too exotic to sit the saddle, Jack.”
“Yes. Yes.”
The hint of condescension in his tone irked her.
He untethered his patient mount, Buck, the same shade as his buff leather gloves, with a black mane and tail. The horse was striking, as was its master. “Keep close watch as we go along, and heed me,” he said pointedly, as if she wouldn’t otherwise.
Annoyance flashed in her like heat lightning. “I’m not devoid of judgement.”
“Never said you were,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“Near enough. You have to realize, women are more independent and outspoken where I come from.”
He countered with an eye roll. “Strong minded females have plenty to say here, as well. The reverse of your assertion is also true. You don’t know this place. Follow. Don’t lead.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” she shot back. “Merely point out things you may have missed and offer advice when needed.”
Giving a snort, he said, “How do you think that might sound to a commanding officer?”
“Overreaching. But you aren’t my commander.”
“Good thing, too. You don’t understand follow.” He swung onto Buck, looking spectacular seated in the saddle.
Her admiring gaze never left his handsome figure. “There are times when assertiveness is called for.”
