Awe-Struck Publishing Book Excerpts

Prairie Wind by Maxine Isackson

2010-01-01T15:36:00.000-05:00

Chapter One

October, 1895

A young woman stood in the wind, honey blond hair tangling, seemingly unaware of the gritty sand particles peppering her face. The sand whipped from the heap of barren soil covering the grave at her feet. No tears streaked her cheeks...she was empty of tears. Empty. That was how she would describe herself if anyone asked. Her wind-chapped lips moved, shaping the words.

“Empty. Hollow. A shell. That is all that is left of me, not even pain. I am as dead as the man beneath that strip of blowing earth.”

She lifted her eyes to the blue dome of prairie sky. “Why, God? Why?” she demanded. “What have I done?” She lifted her hands to her breast as though in supplication. “If I love them, you take them! Why?”

The beseeching figure took no notice of the horse and rider who had arrived at the base of the hill, or of the stocky, middle-aged woman who had walked up the incline until she spoke.

“Leah, you know better. You know God didn’t take Ty from you. Life did that, honey. Life took your folks and it took Simon from the both of us. God don’t set out to deal us grief. Sometimes, we bring it on ourselves, but most times it gets dealt to us while we’re doing our level best.”

The older woman wrapped the younger one in her arms. Holding her close, she continued, “You’re Simon’s daughter. You know what he’d tell you. ‘Quit whippin’ yourself and just face what you have to do, then do it.’” They stood then with an arm around one another’s waist—eyes gazing out across the hills.

“I don’t want to face up to anything. I don’t care anymore.”

“Fiddlesticks! Of course, you care about the Diamond C. You’ve got to take care of it for Simon, and what about Ty’s horses? His stallion Dollar’s Worth? Ty’s dreams of building up a fine herd of horses to leave for his young’un.”

Leah Worth laid a slender hand on her stomach. All that remained of her husband’s love grew there. She lifted her head to meet Maude Henderson’s troubled eyes. “Do you think it might be a boy? A son for Ty?”

“Can’t say, but boy or girl, Ty left it for you to raise...to plan for and build for. Make up your mind to it. You’ve got a job ahead of you. These men we’ve laid here expect it of you.” Maude nodded to include the grave a few yards away, where a few skimpy blades of grass had taken root. “You can’t let them down. You’ve got to care!”

“I can’t! I don’t think I’ll ever be able to, but I can go through the motions. I can do that.”

There was a slight flicker of a smile on the older woman’s own wind-chapped lips. She dropped her arm and stepped back, reaching up to anchor the old felt hat threatening to blow away, satisfied with the response she had received. Going through the motions would be a start. After all a goodly part of life consisted of just that very thing.

The two women walked slowly down the hill, their boot heels sinking into the sandy soil where the sparse fall grass clung, curing, to pale hues of amber and wine. At the foot of the hill, they paused and looked back at the week-old grave of Leah’s husband, Ty Worth, and that of Simon Clayborn who had lain on the hillside for the span of a year. No other graves as yet marked the hillside that had been chosen as a cemetery at the time of Simon Clayborn’s death.

There had been a time years before when Simon and his close friend, Cecil Henderson, would meet on this very hill. They would sit on their horses and, according to Maude, discuss the weather, the condition of the range grass and whatever else cattlemen had uppermost on their minds. Cecil had been gone a good many years and was buried on his own land, but his widow, Maude, had suggested the hill when Simon died. They’d even spoken of the time this spot might become a cemetery for any in the far-flung ranch community who should choose to be buried here. Folks might even decide to build a church close by, if and when they recovered from the years of drought that had gripped the area until the past year.

The two women were a study in contrast as they stood by their horses: one with a weathered face, short, stocky body clad in men’s apparel, a few inches of bobbed gray hair visible from beneath a worn felt hat; the other barely out of girlhood, a petite figure in a shirt and riding skirt, honey blonde hair and wide set brown eyes. Though they differed in age and appearance, the pair had a great deal in common—not only did they share a love of the wide expanse of ranch country located in the Nebraska sand hills, but both had loved the two men buried on the windswept hillside.

Leah reached for the reins of the little chestnut mare that tossed her head with lady-like movements, though, like most well trained ranch mounts, Fleet could be trusted to wait with dropped reins. “Do you have time to stop for coffee, Maude?”

“Wish I did, honey, but I need to check the home pasture windmill. It’s acting up again.” She had gathered her own reins and had swung up on her gray gelding. “I had a feeling you’d be here this afternoon, so I just rode over this way.”

“I appreciate it. I don’t think I could hang on if it weren’t for you.”

“’Course you could, but that’s what family does for each other. Oh, I know, we aren’t family in the true sense of the word...seems like it, though.”

Leah stepped over and put her hand on the denim-clad knee of the mounted woman. “You are family, Maude. Maybe not by blood, but in every other way.”

A callused hand covered hers. “And I’m here for you. Remember, I’ve dealt with sorrow—our babe, Cecil and then Simon. I know what it feels like...like you died, too. Every time it does. But, believe me, honey, the time comes when you can live with the pain. It don’t seem like it...not now. But you will survive and you will live life again.”

Maude received a wan smile in return and doubt clouded the brown eyes gazing up at her as Leah stepped back to swing into her own saddle.

The women rode off, each taking the direction to her ranch home, pausing to wave just before a rise of ground hid her view of the other.

Echoes in the Dark by D.L. Rogers

2009-12-31T11:40:00.001-05:00

Prologue

Khe Sanh Marine Base, February, 1968

Adam jerked awake. Soaked in sweat after another night of tossing and turning, he felt like it’d been weeks since he’d really slept. When he did sleep, it was in short snatches. He was rigid, afraid if he really slept he wouldn’t wake up, blown to bits by a well-placed mortar. He waited for the end. The end of the shelling—or the end of his life.

The distant sky exploded with artillery fire. Today the bombs lit the skies over Lang Vei, a camp six miles southwest of Khe Sanh.

Adam joined the hushed crowd of men listening to the disembodied voice crackling out of the radio, relating details of the bombardment of Lang Vei. The North Vietnamese Army was overrunning the base.

His skin crawled. In days, or even hours, it could be their base teeming with thousands of slant-eyed, two-legged ants racing through camp, killing, maiming, and destroying everything in their path.

But the hours passed. So did the days, along with the daily shelling. By February 23rd the siege had been constant. Adam and the other men existed in dreamlike states, hoping for rescue—waiting for the end. If help did come, would it be too late? Adam drifted in and out of reality as artillery and mortar rounds pounded the base. He yearned only for silence. Scanning the sandbag bunker surrounding him, his only protection from the bombs, he felt the sharp stab of fear.

How long had he been holed up? He couldn’t remember. The days ran one into another. The lunacy of the situation attacked his senses. How long had the shelling been going on? Was it twenty-four minutes, twenty-four hours, twenty-four days? Twenty-four years? How much longer could it go on? How much more could they—he, endure?

In the short silences between barrages, Adam stared into space and let his mind wander. He longed for the whir of the chopper blades of the C-130 Hercules, affectionately known as Herks, and the C-123 Providers that dropped provisions to the base then quickly air-lifted the wounded to safety. But sniper fire had gotten too hot and forced them to abandon their re-supply efforts and evacuation of the wounded.

The green fields and hillsides of the once lush coffee plantations around the base were now burned out, black and dead. And while the countryside around Khe Sanh burned and smoldered, the constant bombing made it impossible to mount a rescue for the men trapped inside the walls of the base. So they waited, fought an invisible enemy, hoped, and prayed.

Adam tried to stay in touch with the reality of a world that no longer seemed to exist as the bombings continued. A world thousands of miles away. Belinda’s world. A place he feared he’d never see again. His mind wandered. He stared off into the smoke-blackened sky, tried to get a breath through the acrid, heavy smoke that hung around him. Tried to see a trace of blue in the sky. He imagined himself and Belinda running hand in hand along the beach, the sun low over their shoulders. They fell to their knees and kissed as the sun set behind them, an orange, flaming ball. He curled up tight as another mortar exploded close by. Dirt and metal sprayed through the air around him.

“Damn it!” he yelled. “Why don’t they stop? Why don’t the bastards stop?” He covered his ears against the next explosion. He stayed with his ears covered, his eyes closed, curled in a ball, trying to shut out the horror of everything around him.

He heard shouting. It was muffled and indistinct through his hands still tight against his ears. It was distant and faint. There was always yelling and screaming, though, all day every day.

Pulling his hands from his ears he forced his eyes open into little slits to see what was happening.

The world exploded. The ground was torn out from under him, from beside him and in front of him. A crushing blow drove the breath out of his chest, searing his lungs as he gasped for breath. He was thrown up, suspended in mid-air, before he crashed to the ground.

He tried to fill his empty lungs with huge, chest-shattering gulps and gagged. Another mortar, just like the one when Ham had been hit, he realized through the haze. He felt as though his body was being crushed between the front bumpers of two colliding cars. The earth spiraled around him and every part of his body hurt, even his toes. He was dazed; he tried to focus, heard muffled voices coming closer, but the blackness was coming too. He remembered this feeling all too well. It meant the mortar had hit close. Too close.

He couldn’t think about that any more. Darkness was coming and this time he surrendered happily to the black unknown beckoning him.

Rules of Conduct by Maggi Andersen

2009-12-29T18:13:00.001-05:00

Chapter One

Oxfordshire 1819

The 3rd Duke of Vale, Hugh Beauchamp, propped his polished brown Hessians on the seat opposite, just as the coach hit a deep rut in the road and lurched on its springs. Cursing, he closed his eyes and tilted his hat down over his face. He made a very poor passenger. He much preferred to have his hands on the reins, in control of his destiny.

Hugh was returning to his countryseat in Oxfordshire from a season in London where he’d danced with Felicity twice at Almacks. As one would expect, this caused a flurry of excitement among the dowagers. Hugh saw no harm in it. It was as inevitable as night follows day that he and Felicity would marry. Already an adept flirt, Felicity’s playful, brown eyes had sparkled up at him from behind her fan. London Society was new to her and seeing how she relished the scene, he suspected she would always prefer town-life to the country. She expressed a desire to have her favorite horses brought to Vale House after they were married. She planned to ride every day in Regent Park. An agreeable life awaited them both, but somehow this trip left Hugh restless and dissatisfied.

At the urging of concerned friends, Hugh had attempted to smooth over his disagreement with the Prince of Wales. The meeting was a dismal failure, as neither he nor the Prince Regent would budge an inch. Prinny had turned his back on Hugh in the end.

We are a spoiled and arrogant pair, Hugh admitted to himself as he stormed out of the Prince’s apartments. Leaving St James’ Palace in The Mall, he instructed his coachman to depart London by the Oxford Road. If the rain held off they would reach home before nightfall.

Now, as he listened to the perfect rhythm of his horses as they raced towards Vale Park, he was determined to put the whole episode with the Prince behind him. Country life seemed far less complicated.

He gave up trying to sleep. Leaning out the window, he filled his lungs with fresh air. Leafy woods of oak, ash and beech swept by, giving way to fields of russet earth enclosed by thorn hedges, plowed and planted with spring crops. And London, with its depressing smells of decay, coal fires, and the rotten stink rising from the Thames at low tide, slipped from his thoughts.

The towering roofs and chimneys of High Ridge Manor appeared through the trees, the home of his boy-hood friend, Harry Carstairs. Years had passed since he and Harry rode fearlessly over those green fields, their horses clearing the fences like Pegasus in full flight. At the thought, Hugh felt like a boy again and quickly removed his feet from the seat as if Nanny was about to rebuke him. He grinned, admitting even now at seven and twenty, the devil seized him and made him jump a gate or two. He wondered if Harry still suffered from a similar impulse, although he doubted it. Harry was now a serious Member of Parliament and committed father of two.

A shout roused Hugh from his reverie as the coachman hauled the horses to a stop in the narrow laneway. His manservant, Peter, jumped down.

“What is it?” Hugh threw open the carriage door and leapt out, pistol in hand. He looked around. Surely, highwaymen wouldn’t attempt to rob him again. They’d come off the worse last time, with one man dead and the other wounded in his escape.

At dusk, it was shadowy and dim beneath the thick canopy of leaves. There were no highwaymen to be seen, but when Hugh moved forward, he saw a body lying on the road, perilously close to the plunging hooves of the horses.

A trick? Hugh tightened his grip on his pistol. “Back up the horses,” he urged his men. “Be quick about it.”

Peter grabbed the traces, and he and the coachman edged the nervous horses away, their flesh quivering and their nostrils steaming in the cold air.

Hugh checked the silent, dark woods on each side of the road again before kneeling beside the inert form. Gently rolling the body over, he reached into the lad’s shirt to feel for a heartbeat.

He pulled his hand out again as if stung. “Devil take us, tis a woman!” As he moved her, the woman’s cap fell off and long strands of fair hair escaped, spreading over her shoulders.

Rendered speechless, they stared at the slight body dressed in men’s clothing. The thin material barely concealed the thrust of firm breasts beneath it. Pantaloons hugged slender legs, her bare feet thick with grime. The shirt strings lay open across a delicate throat, where a silver locket caught the light.

Hugh smoothed the hair away from her mud-streaked face. “I can’t find any signs of bleeding, but she has a bump on her head the size of an egg,” he said. He thought her far too pale, but her pulse felt strong.

“Cor, she ain’t half dirty, your grace,” said Peter, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “She smells of the barnyard.”

“That she does.” Hugh slipped one arm under her shoulders and one beneath her knees. With scant regard for his new, silk-lined and multi-caped greatcoat, he lifted her up, placed her on the seat of the coach, and tucked a travel rug around her.

“Better light the lanterns, John, then on to Vale Park.”

A mist-shrouded moon shone its frail light into the carriage. The young woman did not stir. Hugh picked up one of her hands and patted it, but there was no response. Burned feathers or smelling salts might bring her round once they arrived home, he reasoned.

He turned a small hand over in his large, brown ones. Her skin was soft and showed no evidence of hard labour. She was no housemaid then. Perhaps a seamstress or a governess from one of the big houses in the district, though what she was doing here dressed like that he couldn’t imagine.

Within the half-hour, the coach entered the gates displaying the Vale family Coat of Arms. The gatekeeper saluted as they passed by, carriage lamps flickering, and they plunged into the solid darkness of the home wood.

Hugh sat forward as the coach rounded the last bend and emerged from the trees. As its wheels clattered over the bridge, he caught sight of the church spire against the dark sky.

This first glimpse of the old house never failed to move him. The windows on the ground floor were alight with candles. Braziers burned in their sconces along the lake wall, turning the water to rippling fire and casting a warm, orange glow over the stone of the crenellated towers.

Parts of the building had been built as early as 1480. Hugh’s ancestors had added wings throughout the years according to needs and fashion—the last in the 18th Century. Despite this, the house retained its symmetry and beauty.

As the coach pulled up, several members of Hugh’s staff were there to welcome him. The butler, Porter, began a careful descent, but was brought to a halt as Hugh rushed passed him. Hugh took the stairs two at a time, the unconscious woman in his arms, her hair swinging down.

“Been at the malt again, Porter?” he called back over his shoulder. “I want a bedchamber prepared. Mrs. Moodie will oversee it. Send a boy to the village for the surgeon. Immediately!”

Porter moved to obey the order. An occasional tipple when his grace was away was an unspoken agreement between them, but now with the Duke in residence he knew he must keep the cork in the bottle.

At Porter’s direction, the housekeeper and the maids scurried upstairs, and one of the under-grooms rode off to the village some five miles away for the doctor.

As Hugh entered, a maid removed the warming pan from between the sheets and a footman knelt beside the fire, fanning it into hearty flames. Hugh gently lay the woman on the bed.

Although this chamber seldom saw a visitor these days, there wasn’t a speck of dust to be found. The assiduous Mrs. Moodie, housekeeper at Vale Park, made sure of that. Her iron hold over everyone in the house except Porter, made her much disliked by almost all of the forty people employed there. Most were afraid of her temper. An Irish kitchen hand had called her ‘The Banshee’ behind her back, and although he’d left the Duke’s employ—with Mrs. Moodie’s help—the name had stuck.

At this moment, Mrs. Moodie appeared at her most formidable as she stood at the end of the bed, her arms folded and lips pressed together.

Hugh moved the candelabra closer to the woman’s face. “She’s to be washed as soon as the doctor has seen her,” he said to Mrs. Moodie before leaving the room.

As he walked down the staircase, Hugh wondered at his judgment. How quickly he’d allowed a possible intrigue to distract him from his worries. He would have to deal with this swiftly before gossip spread. The ton loved a scandal. Rumors, completely unsubstantiated and unfair, were already doing the rounds in London concerning his relationship with Princess Caroline, after he travelled to Italy to see her. Rumors didn’t concern him overmuch. He knew his friends would never believe salacious lies about him, but they did believe he had been impetuous in his dealings with Caroline and didn’t hesitate to tell him so.

He could only imagine what they would think of him now.

Texas Hearts by Rachel Smith

2009-12-09T20:02:00.001-05:00

September 1867

Charlie McKenzie was awake before sunrise, sliding out of the bedding he shared with Tyler Cameron in the Conestoga wagon box. The straw tick crackled beneath his shifting weight, and Papa snorted under the wagon, mumbling in his sleep. Charlie froze, one leg still under the woolen blanket, the rest of him shivering slightly in the pre-dawn chill. Though he slept fully clothed in pants, shirt and suspenders, nights were cool on the high Texas prairies, with not much standing tall enough to block the endless wind or hold the day’s heat past sunset. Papa said this was a “semi-arid” region of the world. Papa knew an awful lot; he’d been all the way to the university in Virginia and led a scouting company for General Lee during the War. Most times Charlie was so proud of Papa he could bust, but right now he just wished his father would roll over and stay asleep. He planned to make his way down to a little creek in the nearby hollow. He was certain he’d seen fish in the muddy pool under the cottonwood trees. Last night there was no time for fishing after the stock was seen to and camp chores done, but when Charlie asked if he could try his luck in the morning, Papa stroked his sandy blond mustache, answering thoughtfully, “We’ll see, son.”

Charlie took that for a ‘yes’.

All the same, he knew Papa wouldn’t let him go off alone. Papa wasn’t one for lots of rules, but he expected Charlie to mind what few he made. Papa set the rules for the two-wagon train, because he’d been a captain in the Army of the Confederacy. Mr. Cameron was only a sergeant. And when the wagons rolled out of Fort Worth, Papa set down a new rule: No one goes any place alone. When Papa said no one and any place, he meant it. Even when folks went to do their private business behind a clump of brush or scrub, Papa made sure he or Charlie or Mr. Cameron stood guard; he gave Charlie the squirrel gun for this duty. They looked away, if they were watching out for Tyler’s sister Lizzie or her mama, Mrs. Cameron, but they stood guard. Tyler was only seven years old, too little to protect anybody, but Charlie was twelve, almost a man, and Papa trusted him to act like one.

That thought almost made Charlie get back under the covers and stay put. Almost, but not quite. He was everlasting sick of beans and cornbread for breakfast, beans and cornbread for supper and cold cornbread for lunch. Just the thought of fresh trout or catfish, rolled in cornmeal and fried to a crisp, made his stomach clench and quiver. And it made him think of other things too; of times before the War, when there was always food and plenty of it. Ham and fried chicken, soft fluffy biscuits, watermelon and barbecue...Charlie closed his eyes. He wouldn’t think of those days, when Mama was alive.

Under the wagon box, Papa’s breathing softened and slowed. Quieter than quiet, Charlie rolled the rest of the way out from under the blanket. After rearranging it gently around Tyler’s sleeping form, he crept to the front of the wagon. He carefully untied the canvas wagon cover, climbed out the opening and tied it again behind himself, to keep the night chill off the sleeping boy. Tyler was just a little kid but he was all right. Tyler and Lizzie were tag-alongs, but they didn’t whine or tattle and they pretty much did as Charlie told them. He reckoned he could get used to having them around on the ranch Papa and Mr. Cameron meant to start. Mr. Cameron was all right, too, although he was a somber man who didn’t smile or joke around much, unlike Papa. He worked hard, though. Papa said Mr. Cameron just had more than his share of war.

Mrs. Cameron wasn’t bad either. She tried to mother Charlie some, but he didn’t mind. Mrs. Cameron was mostly just pretty and quiet and sad. Maybe fresh fish for breakfast would chirk her up some. Maybe then Papa might overlook that Charlie broke the rules. Maybe.

Charlie glanced over to the other wagon, where Mrs. Cameron slept with Lizzie, while Mr. Cameron was supposed to be on guard. Steady, soft snores told him Mr. Cameron had fallen asleep, sitting on the ground with his back to the wagon wheel. Above her slumbering father, a small head in a white nightcap poked through the wagon cover, watching Charlie swing down from the wagon seat. Well, heck, Charlie thought.

Lizzie was little, but she was smart enough not to call out and wake everybody. Charlie approached her perch cautiously, avoiding the still glowing campfire and Mr. Cameron.

“Go back to bed, squirt,” he ordered in a gruff whisper.

She peered out below the ruffle of her nightcap, through almond shaped dark brown eyes. At five years old, Lizzie still possessed the chubby cheeks, button nose, and rosebud mouth of babyhood. She was generally cute, contented and stubborn. She made no move to obey.

“Go on,” Charlie urged.

Lizzie slowly shook her head.

“Go,” Charlie hissed. From six months’ acquaintance, though, Charlie knew he was wasting breath.

“All right,” he sighed. “Come on. Just be quiet, will ya?”

As the girl clambered over the wagon box into his waiting arms, Charlie reflected sourly that at least he was no longer going off alone. Whether that dog would hunt with Papa or not, he couldn’t say. He dropped Lizzie gently to the ground.

Mr. Cameron snored softly in his sleep. Charlie briefly debated waking him, but decided against it. Dawn wasn’t far off, and Mr. Cameron was tired just like Papa, worn down by the never ending travel and the tension of nightly sentry duty.

In the slowly silvering pre-dawn, the two children swung off toward the shallow depression in the prairie, some hundred yards distant. The boy was tall for his age, rangy, sandy-haired and blue- eyed, slightly stooped from slouching over the reins on a wagon seat, day in and day out while his father rode point, all the way from Georgia. The girl was less than half his height, trotting barefoot beside him with silent trust, like a pudgy little ghost in her long white nightgown, fat brown braid bobbing down her back.

The creek bank cut sharply into the prairie, a steep six-foot drop to the hollow below. Swinging south, Charlie followed the bank to the dim wildlife trail he’d found the night before. He paused at the top to lift Lizzie, snugging her against his hip.

“Hang on,” he warned. She clutched his shoulder with both dimpled hands. He slipped and slid down the narrow path, ducking past scrubby cottonwood branches at the water’s edge. In a curve of the bank, brush and tree limbs lay tangled together, washed down by some long ago flood. Cemented by accumulated dirt and gravel, they partially dammed the sluggish stream. It curled through a quiet pool before sliding past the far end of the barrier. Charlie lowered Lizzie to the ground, ordering, “Stay away from the water. Don’t know what’s in there.”

She watched, still silent, as Charlie picked his way around the curve of the creek. The sky lightened steadily above them.

The boy knelt on a slender sandy stretch, then lay full length at the water’s edge. Lowering one cautious hand to the surface of the creek, then below it, he pressed his cheek flat to the ground, eyes closed in concentration, arm submerged to the shoulder.

“Papa taught me to tickle fish years ago,” Charlie breathed. “If I can just—here, now—”

His arm jerked, water splashed, something sleek and shiny wriggled frantically in the dirt at Lizzie’s feet. She stooped, grabbed, missed and grabbed again, plopping the prize into the cup of her bunched up nightgown. She held the fabric firmly around the flopping fish, with both chubby fists.

“Good girl,” Charlie approved. The pearling sunrise showed his teeth in a wide grin. “Let’s see if there’s any more.” He lowered himself again to the ground, and stiffened. A sudden thunder of galloping hooves, ear splitting screeches, shouts, screams and shots erupted in the early morning silence.

Charlie jumped to his feet.

“Get into the brush!” he screamed at Lizzie. “Now, goldurn it, right now!” He leapt to the bewildered girl, roughly shoving her into the screen of growth at the water’s edge, then hauling loose branches across the pale splotch of her white nightdress.

“Stay put, you hear me?” He shoved his face next to hers, still shouting. “You hear, Lizzie? Don’t you come outta there for nobody but me, you hear?”

Lizzie puckered up to cry.

“Stop it!” Grabbing her by the shoulders, Charlie shook her once, hard. “Stop bawlin’ and don’t you make a sound, you hear?”

After all the quiet conversations between Papa and Mr. Cameron when they thought he wasn’t listening, Charlie knew the meaning of those shots and screams and wails. The wagons were under attack, with only Papa and Mr. Cameron to defend them. Big as he was, Charlie was terrified. Despite his own fear, the boy was filled with swift compassion. Lizzie was just a baby; she didn’t even know enough to be scared. There was nobody to protect her right now but him, and like a fool he took out just as Papa forbade, with no companion and no gun.

“Stay put, Liz,” Charlie panted again, quieter. “I’ll come back, I swear. Just wait here. Wait here!”

The boy rose and scrambled for the dim trail, thick smoke drifting to meet him. As he burst from the bluff, rifle fire cracked through the dawn. The scream of Papa’s chestnut mare, the bawling of terrified oxen, shrill yells and crackling flames whipped together on the wind.

Charlie swayed on the edge of the open prairie, transfixed by a scene from hell. Riders on horseback thundered around and through the campsite, shouting and shooting. Awkward and unmoving, Mr. Cameron slumped beside the wagon wheel. His wife sprawled across the seat above him, her white nightdress streaked with crimson. From the wagon where Charlie left Tyler sleeping, fiery fingers of destruction roared and raged against the sky.

Silhouetted beside the campfire coals, a slender figure stood alone, rifle in hand. Firing, loading, firing into the swirling, shrieking band of horsemen, as he once did in the face of Grant’s army, Charlie’s papa made his stand. Pivoting with the circling raiders, he tossed down the rifle, drew a pistol from his belt and resumed fire.

“Papa!” The cry was torn from Charlie’s throat, thrown on the wind. The man by the campfire faltered and turned, fear in his face for the first time that day.

“Run, Charlie!” his papa yelled.

Charlie ran—straight toward his father, fists pumping at his sides. He never saw the rider race up behind him, never saw the rifle butt lifted above his head. He knew nothing and felt nothing until the burst of pain shot through his temple. Fire, blood and fear dragged him down in the cool, grassy dawn.

The Twelve Days of Christmas by Linda Swift

2009-12-08T18:19:00.003-05:00

Chapter One

“Leigh Wallingsford?”

The clerk at the Delta counter in the Sarasota-Bradenton Airport looked at her identification, then back to the ticket.

“Yes.”

“Your destination is Nashville?”

Again Leigh answered yes.

After satisfying the man that yes, she had packed her own luggage and no, she was not carrying drugs or firearms or explosives, her bags were swept onto a conveyer and she was given a departure gate number. As Leigh watched her luggage disappear from view she had an urge to recall it and cancel her flight. This last-minute decision to accept her grandmother's invitation to the combined Christmas and birthday celebration was a mistake.

Leigh tucked her ticket into the pocket of her flight bag and headed up the escalator toward the boarding area. As she squeezed past a crowd waiting beside the security gates to greet the incoming passengers, she noticed that most were older people who were probably waiting for their children and grands to arrive for a holiday in the sun.

Confirming her thoughts, one small voice called above the noise, “Gramma, Grampa. Here I am!” and a little boy ran toward an eager couple who seemed scarcely able to contain themselves at the sight of him.

Tears stung her eyes as she dumped her personal items onto the conveyor with more force than necessary and walked through the gate.

Was she never going to be able to see a child again without this terrible feeling of loss that always assaulted her?

Leigh met more people as she approached the departure area, people carrying gift-wrapped packages, people like herself traveling to spend Christmas with family. She wondered if any of them were filled with the same misgivings as she.

The first boarding call was being announced as Leigh approached Gate 22. “All passengers needing assistance or those with small children...”

A sudden image of herself hurrying along the concourse, holding an eager little boy's hand, brought a stab of familiar pain to her chest and she drew a sharp breath.

Jamie had been four the last Christmas she and James had flown back to Kentucky for a family holiday. And they'd already had tickets the following year when the accident...

With determined effort, Leigh tuned out the loudspeaker and the image it had evoked and turned toward the expansive glass window for a last wistful look at palm trees in bright sunshine. She was definitely headed the wrong direction, but it was too late for remonstration now. Sighing with resignation, she joined a line moving toward the gate and reached for her boarding pass.

The plane was crowded, and the noise level reflected the convivial spirit of the season as Leigh found her assigned seat next to a window. She nodded to her fellow seatmate, a balding man in a dark business suit, and opened a paperback book to discourage further conversation. But the man was not to be deterred so easily.

“Going north for the holidays?”

“Yes, to Kentucky.” Leigh continued her effort to read.

“Oh? What part?”

“Murray.” When the man looked puzzled, she added, “A small university town in the western part of the state.”

“I'm headed for Baltimore. To see my daughter and family. She's got three rowdy boys, all under ten.” He reached for his billfold, and Leigh closed her book, preparing for the inevitable.

After the exhibit accompanied by detailed explanations of each photo and Leigh's polite response, the man glanced at her ringless left hand. “You're not married?”

“No, I'm a—” the word still stuck in her throat after four years, and she hesitated before saying it “—widow.”

He studied her for a moment. “I had no idea. You're so young.” After a pause, he continued. “I'm a widower myself. It's tough.”

Leigh nodded, and opened her book again. She hoped the man would take the hint and drop the personal questions. The last thing she wanted was to discuss her private life with a stranger but he continued.

“Do you have children?”

Leigh shook her head. Then because she couldn't deny Jamie's brief existence, even though it hurt so much to talk about him, she went on. “I had a son. He died, too.”

This time the garrulous man looked chagrined. “I'm so sorry.” He patted her arm awkwardly, then changed the subject and soon lapsed into silence.

Leigh had gotten up early to pack and napped intermittently on the first leg of the trip. The airport in Atlanta was even more crowded than usual, but she managed to board her connecting flight with only a short delay. After being airborne again, Leigh sat wondering why she was doing this and wishing for the umpteenth time she wasn't.

She hadn't been to Murray since the car accident that claimed the lives of her husband and young son four years ago, only contacting the family through infrequent calls to her grandmother. She simply couldn't handle pity and was certain her relatives would have felt obliged to offer large doses of it. She only hoped after this long that they wouldn't feel obligated to do so now.

Almost all of them would be there, she supposed—aunts, uncles, cousins. But it had been time enough now that she should get on with her life. That was the main reason she'd decided to return to Murray and face the family.

“Coffee?”

The smiling flight attendant interrupted her thoughts, and Leigh nodded and adjusted the tray in front of her to accommodate the cup.

“Sugar, cream?”

“No, thank you.” She took a sip of the steaming liquid and resumed her musing.

It had been her intention to book a return flight right after Christmas Day, but nothing had been available until after the New Year so she'd had a choice of twelve days or nothing. She had also intended to rent a car in Nashville but Me-Me's letter yesterday had forced another change of plans. Leigh recalled her grandmother's exact words, written in her perfect penmanship on lavender-scented notepaper.

Leigh, darling, I have also invited Russell Clark and family to spend Christmas with us this year. They will be arriving from Tucson within minutes of your own flight and will be expecting you to join them for the drive to Murray. I can't wait to see you, dear. It's been too long.

Best love, Me-Me.

Exasperated that her grandmother had made the arrangement without first consulting her, Leigh considered refusing to go along with it. Russell and his family would probably be crowded with an extra passenger. She knew he had a wife and at least two children.

If she understood the letter correctly, they were also invited to stay with Me-Me. And although the spacious old house could accommodate a large number of guests, she was not looking forward to spending days under the same roof with Russell Clark. This was one more reason to regret accepting her own invitation.

Thinking of her childhood in Murray as she sipped her coffee, Leigh remembered the studious young boy with large glasses as he was that first Christmas when Walter Clark had brought his new wife Barbara and her nine-year-old son to meet his mother. If her own son had lived, he would be the age Russell was then, but she wouldn't think about that.

Russell liked to read, which had immediately endeared him to Me-Me who was head of the Murray Public Library then. Even though reading was one of Leigh's passions too, she had preferred the company of her more boisterous cousins to the shy newcomer visiting Hattie Clark next door.

After they reached their teens, Leigh's encounters with Russell had been more frequent, and she began to appreciate his intellect and talents which compensated for his shyness.

They became good friends the summer before her senior year in high school when Russell had come to stay with Miss Hattie and take a course at the university that he needed for enrollment in architectural school that fall.

They had actually become more than just good friends, Leigh reluctantly admitted. But she hadn't seen Russell since he came back to Murray for Miss Hattie's funeral the year she finished graduate school. And it was painful to recall that last meeting even now.

Me-Me had kept her informed of Russell's professional progress—graduation with honors from Texas A&M, a job with a prestigious architectural firm on the West Coast, then starting his own business in Tucson. She imagined him today as a serious, dependable, hard-working man with a wife and two children and a house in the suburbs. What if she wasn't able to recognize him after eleven years? Perhaps she should have called and suggested that he wear a red cactus bloom in his lapel.

“We are now approaching Nashville. All passengers please fasten your seat belts and place your seats in an upright position. See that all trays are securely locked...”

The plane began its slow descent toward the airport as the recording continued, and Leigh gave her empty cup to the flight attendant and prepared for landing. A small unfamiliar tremor of anticipation caused her heart to beat faster as she looked at the city below.