by Kelli Estes
For Larkin, it had been because of her grandpa, who had fought in the Korean War, and because of the trip she’d taken with him to Washington, DC, in junior high when she’d learned that women were in the military, too. It wasn’t only for boys. Sarah had an even better story, though. She’d told Larkin that night about an ancestor of hers who had disguised herself as a man and fought in the Civil War. The news that women had fought in the Civil War had blown Larkin’s mind. Sarah’s grandmother had given her the diary when she was a little girl, and Sarah had wanted to be like Emily Wilson ever since.
This had to be that diary.
Larkin’s hands shook. When she’d learned that Sarah had left all of her possessions to her, she hadn’t expected to find anything so valuable. Surely there was someone in Sarah’s family who should have this instead?
But Sarah hadn’t been close to her family. They’d done nothing but hurt her, and ever since they were freshman rooks at Norwich, Sarah had said Larkin was her only family. Larkin had never had a sister, but she grew up with two cousins close to her age who were like sisters. She’d missed them terribly when she’d moved across the country for college, and Sarah had filled that hole. Now, there was a Sarah-shaped hole in her life that would never be filled.
Maybe Sarah really had meant for her to inherit this diary.
Larkin would much rather have Sarah back.
A splotch of water fell onto the open diary page, and Larkin realized she was crying. Damn it. She never cried.
She wiped away the tears and moved to shove the diary back into the box. But then she stopped. No. She wouldn’t leave it crammed in some box. The diary would stay with her.
With her new plan to stay at a hotel overnight, she didn’t want her car full of boxes that might tempt someone to break in. She returned the boxes to the storage unit, rolled the door back down, and fastened the lock. She had all day tomorrow to face this. For now, she’d get something to eat and a good night’s rest.
Back in her car, she carefully placed the diary on the passenger seat, next to the urn that she had buckled in with the seat belt. Sarah’s final requests had specified that she was to be cremated and her ashes placed into a biodegradable urn made out of pink Himalayan salt. Larkin was to scatter her ashes on the beaches of Sarah’s home state of California, and when they were all gone, she was to throw the urn itself into the ocean where it would dissolve, leaving nothing behind for anyone to have to deal with in the years to come.
Larkin had driven from Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, where she’d processed out of the Army, to San Diego, where she’d had every intention of following Sarah’s instructions. But once she got there, it was too soon to say goodbye. So, she’d driven north up the coast toward her final destination of Woodinville, Washington, intending to stop at another beach to scatter the ashes once she was stronger.
She’d stopped at ten different beaches, and each time, she hadn’t been able to part with Sarah. She couldn’t let her go yet.
“Look what I found,” she said to her friend as she latched her seat belt and started the engine. “It’s that diary you told me about. I’ll start reading it tonight, as soon as I eat something.” She hadn’t eaten since Eugene, Oregon, over five hours ago.
As she pulled out of the storage facility, she saw a hotel next door and a Mexican restaurant across the street. Perfect.
She thought about taking her dinner to go, but a beer sounded too good to pass up. She drank a Corona with lime while she waited on her food and asked for another as a huge plate of cheese enchiladas was placed before her.
She didn’t realize how hungry she was until her first bite made her salivate. Heaven on a plate, that’s what this was, she decided, savoring another bite. She hadn’t had good Mexican food for over a year. No surprise, of course, that she couldn’t find any in Afghanistan, but even when she’d returned to the States, she hadn’t found enchiladas like this in Memphis or Missouri.
She was so caught up in her food that it took a moment for the conversation at the table behind her to sink into her consciousness. But when it did, she found she could focus on nothing else.
“Yeah, she’s hot,” said a young male voice. “Just be warned. They say women in the military are either bitches, sluts, or dykes. I vote for the middle category.”
The two men laughed and went on boasting about what they would do to the women in question, each claim filthier than the last. Larkin looked around to see who they might be talking about and found two women in Army combat uniforms paying for a take-out order at the bar. They had no idea the two perverts were talking about them and, from the fatigue clearly weighing them down, had likely just ended a long day and wanted to go home and eat their meal in peace.
Larkin had dealt with men like them her whole military career—from JROTC in high school through her last deployment to Afghanistan. From civilians and military members alike. She’d learned to ignore the comments and to make sure her behavior was always above reproach.
But she wasn’t in the military anymore, she realized. She no longer had to worry about jeopardizing her career.
Before she knew what she was doing, she picked up her full glass of beer and pushed to her feet to go stand beside the men’s table. As she’d thought, they were college kids, full of their own importance and the erroneous belief that women existed only for their pleasure.
“Hey, boys.” She greeted them with a smile. “I heard you talking about those women.” She motioned to the two soldiers with her beer and then took a sip, acting like she wasn’t pissed. “They are real pretty, aren’t they?”
The blond kid, who had the look of a star athlete, smiled at her, his perfect teeth so white they had to have been bleached. He looked like he was going to agree with her, but his buddy, a more studious-looking guy with glasses, shot him a look and asked Larkin, “Can we help you?”
Larkin stopped pretending to be nice. She slammed her beer on the table and leaned on both palms so she was hovering over them. “Yes, you can help me. First, by apologizing to those women and paying for their meals. Second, you can thank them for volunteering to put their lives in danger for your freedom. And third, you can never let such sexist and shitheaded words leave your mouths again.”
The blond sports star scowled, arrogance making his perfect face turn ugly. “Why would we do any of that?”
“Because,” she told him, allowing the disgust she felt for them to deepen her voice. “You disrespected members of the military who work hard every day so that shits like you have the freedom to jack off in your daddy’s basement and congratulate yourselves on being men.”
A clapping sound made her look over, and when she saw the two women watching her with huge grins on their faces, Larkin realized she’d been speaking louder than she thought.
She looked around and saw the entire restaurant watching her. Many of the customers were in uniform, as they were only a couple of miles from Joint Base Lewis-McChord, also known as JBLM. Most smiled and nodded at her. Some had already turned back to their meals.
Larkin looked back at the two men in the booth. “So? Are you going to apologize to these women, or do I need to teach you some manners?”
Sports Star laughed. “What are you gonna do? Pour your beer over us? I’m so scared.”
Larkin deliberately lifted her beer to her lips and downed the final few gulps. When her glass was empty, she gripped it tightly in her palm and raised her arm to smash it against the asshole’s head. As she began to swing, though, someone grabbed her wrist and the glass slipped out of her hand, crashing to the floor.
Furious, she looked to see who had stopped her and was surprised to see a familiar face.
“Don’t do this, Captain.”
She had to look at his name tape before she remembered who he was. Cohan. Tim Cohan. They’d been in training together at JBLM a couple of years ago, though they’d never really bee
n friends. She was surprised he remembered her. “I’m not a captain anymore.”
He nodded curtly. “I’d heard. I’m sorry. But still, you don’t want to do this.” Before Larkin could say another word, he dropped her hand and turned to the men at the table. “I suggest you pay for your meals and get the hell out of here.”
Anger made her whole body feel like it was buzzing, but she held herself completely still as the two jerks dropped money on the table and slid from the booth, their faces smug as they brushed past her and disappeared out the door.
Larkin turned on Cohan. “I had it under control.”
He stepped back with his hands held out to his sides. “I was only trying to help.”
All the anger she’d felt when she’d heard the men’s sexist comments earlier still boiled in her belly. It called forth the rage she’d always had to push aside over her years in the Army as she put up with such comments or men like Cohan, who thought every woman needed a man to save the day. Gritting her teeth, she stepped forward until she was right in his face. “Men like you need to back the hell off. You got that? We can’t even have a fucking meal without being degraded, and then you step in and tell me I’m not allowed to demand a little common decency?”
“You were about to smash his head in, Bennett.”
“Maybe he needed his head smashed in.”
Cohan swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I see your PTSD treatment didn’t work.”
Larkin reared back. How the hell did he know? What had he heard? She opened her mouth to demand the answers but realized it didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. None of this mattered.
Deliberately, she turned away from him and reached for the rucksack that served as her purse, which she’d left on the bench seat at her table. Without another glance Cohan’s way, she drew out enough money to pay for her meal, dropped it next to her plate, and walked out.
For several long moments, she sat in her car in the dark and battled back the sting behind her eyes.
“I wish you were here, Sarah,” she said when she finally calmed down enough to speak. “You would’ve kicked their asses and been done with it. I looked like an out-of-control loser in there.”
She imagined she heard Sarah laughing, and it made her smile. “I did manage to scare those shitheads at least a little, didn’t I? Maybe they’ll think twice before saying crap like that again.”
She started her engine and drove across the street to the U-shaped, one-level motel where she planned to spend the night.
Her room was a total dive. A bed was crammed into a corner with a piece of orange Naugahyde-wrapped plywood attached to the wall as a fake headboard. An old brown towel was thumbtacked over the window where a curtain should be, and in the bathroom, a round toilet seat barely covered an oblong-shaped toilet bowl. Water dripped into the stained bathtub.
It was just one night. The door locked, and the bed looked clean enough.
She carefully placed Sarah’s urn on the middle of the tiny, scarred table and dropped her travel bag on the chair next to it. The floor looked too questionable to set anything on.
Soon, Larkin had her teeth brushed and her pajamas on, and she settled into bed with the diary.
She had no idea what to expect from the story other than what Sarah had told her, but all she really wanted was to feel close to Sarah.
And so, she unwrapped the leather thong and opened to the first entry.
April 18, 1861: Today, Pa and David answered Lincoln’s call for volunteers for the United States Army, where they will fight against the secessioners and make our country whole again. Pa says they’ll be home in three months, but I hope the Southern rebellion ends much sooner. Pa gave me this diary so I can write down and remember everything to tell him about the farm and Stampers Creek when he returns. I wish he had let me go with him instead. I can shoot a musket as well as, if not better than, David!
We got the beanpoles constructed and vegetables planted. Ben plowed the north field. Uncle Samuel kept us busy until nearly dark, what with being shorthanded now. Being busy did not keep me from missing Pa and David. Three months is going to be a very long time.
Chapter Two
April 18, 1861: Wilson Family Farm, Stampers Creek, Indiana
“You know I can shoot better than David,” Emily Wilson said to her father, not for the first time. She squeezed her hands into fists. Outside the kitchen window, birds filled the morning with song, but she ignored them. Her heart was too heavy. “I can do my duty as well as any man. Why can’t I go with you?”
“And me too,” chimed in her younger brother, Ben, as he handed Pa his satchel of extra clothing and food. “I’m almost eighteen. I can fight.”
Two days had passed since they’d learned of President Lincoln’s call for 75,000 volunteers, and both Emily and Ben had spent all of those days begging their father to let them go with him and David. They’d each expressed their loyalty to their country, but Emily had kept her true motivation—a deep, aching need for adventure—to herself. Pa wouldn’t understand why she would want anything more in life than a home and family.
Pa’s lips pressed together, and he seemed to be considering their arguments. He had taught all three of them a strong sense of patriotism. Pa had been proud to serve the United States of America in the Mexican War, and he often told them stories of his own father who had served during the War of Independence. “Our family will always stand for what’s right,” he said now. “And the side of right in this uprising is to preserve our great Union. I’m proud you want to be part of that.”
He took a step closer and placed his bear paw of a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Each of you would be an asset to our great nation’s cause, but soldiers must already be eighteen.” His eyes shifted to Emily. “And a battlefield is no place for a woman.”
“Besides,” he continued as he turned toward the rolltop desk in the adjoining sitting room where he kept the farm’s accounts, “I’m sure we’ll put this rebellion to rest in no time. David and I will be home before you know it.”
When he turned back to them, he held a book in his hands. Shyly, he held it out to Emily. “I, uh, I got this for you. It’s a diary. Keep record of all the goings-on around here so you can tell me all about them when I return.”
Emily took the book and inspected the leather thong wrapped around the stiff, thick book. The cover was carved with a floral design that reminded her of the flowers in Aunt Harriet’s garden. “Thank you, Pa.” She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from begging him yet again to take her with him.
As Ben went to help David fill his satchel with the leftover breakfast biscuits, Pa stepped closer and gently took the book from her. In a low voice so only she heard, he said, “It has a secret compartment built in right here.” With his pocketknife in hand, he pried the leather cover open to reveal a depression hidden inside, only about a quarter-inch deep and the size of Pa’s hand. “Look, there’s even a place to store a pen inside. Keep your treasures in here, and no one will find them.”
Emily knew Pa was referring to Uncle Samuel, who would be looking after them while Pa and David were gone. He was a miserly and sometimes mean old man who was never happy about anything. She pressed the lid back into place and carefully set the book on the kitchen table. “Thank you, Pa. I’ll write in here every day. Just promise you’ll hurry home so you can read it.”
“I will.” He kissed Emily’s forehead before reaching for something behind the kitchen door. “Benjamin, I want you to have my Springfield rifle. You’re the man of the house now, and I’m counting on you to protect your sister.”
Ben solemnly took the weapon. “Don’t you need it for fightin’ the secesh?”
Pa shook his head. “The government will provide me with a weapon. This one is for you.”
Too soon, it was time for them all to make their way across the potato field to Aunt Harriet and Uncle
Samuel’s house, where Pa bid farewell to his sister and brother-in-law and their two children.
Aunt Harriet was weeping, making it more difficult for Emily to keep her own tears in check. She swallowed hard, and as Pa turned back to her with another hug, she breathed him in, trying to imprint his scent of soap and leather onto her heart to carry her through the coming days. “You take good care of your brother now,” Pa murmured into her ear, “and be helpful to Aunt Harriet and Uncle Samuel. They need you if they’re to keep the farm going until we return.”
“What if you don’t?” Emily had heard his stories from the Mexican War. She knew that even short battles took lives. “What if you don’t return?” She bit hard on her bottom lip to stop it from trembling.
Pa pulled back and held her at arm’s length. His gray-blue eyes softened and his mustache twitched. “If I should die fighting to preserve our great Union, I’ll consider my life well spent. I’ll expect each of you to do your part, too.” He released her and looked at Ben. “If it comes to that, you’ll enlist, but not before your birthday, you hear?”
Ben nodded. His eyes shone with excitement at the prospect.
“And you, dear girl,” Pa went on, giving Emily a stern look, “are to sew socks and flags and roll bandages and help provide anything else our soldiers might need. Women’s work at home is equally as important as the men’s on the battlefield.”
Emily secretly believed she could do more good on the battlefield. “Come home to us, Pa. You too, David.”
“We’ll do our best.” Pa rested his palm on her cheek before turning again to Ben. He pulled him into his arms and pounded his back. “I’ll miss you. Both of you.”
As he stepped back, David took his place and gave them each a hug. “If you’ve a mind to, I’d be obliged if you called on Nancy from time to time. Tell her I’ll be home soon.”
David had confided to Emily just last evening after supper that he wanted to marry Nancy Polson, but he did not think it would be kind of him to propose until after he returned from the fighting. Emily reassured him, saying, “I’ll be sure she does not forget you, Brother.”
