by

Mary Kirk

What true-blue romance fan can resist a wounded hero? Certainly, none that I know.

Through the pages of some of the genre’s most memorable "classics," we’ve cried as he struggled with the demons plaguing him from both without and within, at the same time he went on searching for peace, freedom, or simply a home. The wounded hero holds a special place in our hearts, and nothing gives us greater satisfaction than seeing that brave man find peace and happiness—and the love of his life, as well.

The Journey Home is about the wounded hero. The man who does what he must. The soldier who risks his life for his beliefs, his family, his country. The warrior who gives his all for a cause. It’s about the man who goes to war and discovers, when it’s over, that he’s a different man—and, maybe, that he isn’t certain who or what he’s become.

It’s also about the woman who loves such a man: the one who waits at home, worrying, wondering. When her man finally returns, will her love be enough to heal the invisible wounds of combat? Will he even recognize the stranger sleeping alongside him at night?

Whether victors or vanquished, all survivors of a conflict must face the aftermath. But where do battle-scarred and world-weary warriors go to lick their wounds and to heal? How do they come to grips with what they’ve done and with what’s been done to them? Will they—can they—return to hearth and home? Or are they destined to live in painful isolation, unable to find a woman brave enough to love a man whose heart has been shattered?

The award-winning, best-selling authors of The Journey Home have created a wonderfully romantic collection of tales about wounded heroes who find healing love in unexpected—and strangely uncanny—ways and places.

In Patricia Rice’s "Home is Where the Heart Is," Thomas returns from Vietnam missing part of his foot, bringing with him the ghost of his best friend—and hardly daring to hope that his anti-war, high-school sweetheart will still love him.

Rebecca York’s ("A Hero’s Welcome") rebel Ben Linkman won a hero’s boon, helping his enslaved people rise up and take control of their Earth-colonized planet. He now owns a confiscated plantation. But nobody except Kasi, daughter of his former master, can give him what he wants most: her heart.

Lying ill unto death in a Union prison, Jared, in Rickey R. Mallory’s "A Better Man," has given up hope, when he’s rescued by his brother, an officer in the Confederate army. Rob leads Jared home, leaving him at the doorstep, unconscious. But six days later, when Jared awakens, he learns Rob has been dead for months . . . and Christianne, his brother’s widow, whom Jared has loved in silence since childhood, is ready to love again.

To honor a promise to his twin sister, Brian Mason (Linda Madl’s "Heart Crossings") asks psychic medium Amanda Sherman to help him contact his sister on "the other side." But Amanda knows it’s Brian own grieving, cynical soul that needs to be contacted—and brought back from the Great War and the trenches of France to the land of the living . . . if only he’ll trust her to help him.

Then, in "The Stargazer’s Familiar," Mary Jo Putney has created a hero who . . . well . . . actually, no, I don’t think I’ll tell you. I’ll let you find out for yourself about the handsome and intriguing Leo—and about all the other wonderful wounded heroes in The Journey Home.

From the Wars of the Roses to the American Revolution, from The Great War of the twentieth century to a battle for control of an Earth-colonized planet, you’ll find in these pages glimpses into the souls of a few good men and the women who love them. Their passionate stories reveal that, no matter the place, the time, or the reason, war scars those who engage in it. And when the last shot is fired, the hero’s struggle to reclaim his humanity—and his heart—may only just have begun.

Mary Kirk
October 2004

*************************

by

Linda Madl

When the doorbell rang, Elvira set down her teacup. "Who could that be?"

"Everyone knows Amanda won’t read again until Friday," Opal said.

"I’ll get it." Amanda rose, wondering who it might be. The neighbors never bothered them on séance days.

"No, I’ll get it." Elvira jumped up before Amanda could get around the table. "It might be a bill collector."

That unpleasant possibility made Amanda hang back.

At the door Elvira paused, gathering herself, before opening it to face the caller. "Good afternoon, sir."

"A man!" whispered Opal, who’d moved to Amanda’s side.

"I’d like to see the medium, Miss Amanda Sherman," a quiet baritone announced, its timbre full of confidence, with an underlying note Amanda knew well—skepticism. Yet its appeal was so strong she was drawn into the foyer.

"My name is Brian Mason. I understand Miss Sherman lives here."

"She does." Elvira closed the door partially, preventing Amanda from seeing or being seen. "Miss Sherman only reads three times a week, and she has already finished today’s reading. If you’d be so kind as to call back at two o’clock on Friday, I’m sure she’d be glad to speak with you."

"I’m sorry," the man said, his voice full of patient resolve, though Amanda heard the underlying urgency in it. "Miss Sherman comes highly rated by the American Society of Psychical Research, as I’m sure you know. I’ve driven from Chicago today. I’d be much obliged if she’d see me. I’ll gladly pay whatever fee she asks."

Tempted though she was, Amanda shook her head in silent refusal. She was drained.

"That’s generous, sir, but as I said, Miss Sherman has read today." Elvira’s eyes narrowed as she estimated the man’s worth. "We only accept donations."

"Naturally, I would be most appreciative," he replied.

Elvira’s eyes widened momentarily, and Amanda gave a silent snort. Her stepsister would never refuse money.

"Perhaps we can help you." Elvira stepped aside to allow him to enter.

A tall, square-shouldered soldier stepped into the foyer. He was dressed in the olive drab uniform and shiny leather gaiters of an infantryman. He was a captain, if Amanda knew her insignias. Funny he hadn’t introduced himself as an officer. He’d tucked his billed cap under his arm and stood straight as an arrow, feet together and hands at his sides. His dark hair was close cropped, his face clean-shaven. He had dark, solemn eyes and a beautiful mouth set in the telltale grim line of the bereaved.

She knew that look only too well. It made her heart ache.

"I’m Amanda Sherman." She didn’t offer her hand. Most physical contact brought her nothing, but occasionally the experience could be disagreeable.

"Miss Sherman." He nodded, his tone a mixture of relief and, again, skepticism.

Elvira hung his hat on the foyer rack.

"Of course, I’ll be glad to do a reading for one of our troops," Amanda said, ashamed of her earlier reluctance. She summoned the courage to face another session and prayed she wouldn’t have to lie to a soldier. "By the way," she added. "There’s no obligation to make a donation."

When Brian’s eyes adjusted to the shadowy foyer, he saw a young woman in white standing before him. Amanda Sherman was unlike the other two mediums he’d met. She was young and pretty in her simple full-skirted dress with its lace collar. No scarves, no hoop earrings, no bangles on her wrists. Just ebony curls with chestnut highlights framing her face, an intelligent brow, a luscious mouth, and a natural blush in her cheeks.

She gazed at him with somber brown eyes as she introduced her stepsisters.

"Ladies." Brian managed to pull his gaze from her long enough to nod toward the pudgy young woman, who stared at him goggle-eyed, and the dry husk of a female who’d answered the door. Then his gaze was back on the girl in white. Her engaging directness fascinated him. "I appreciate your seeing me, Miss Sherman."

"With gasoline still being rationed, Springfield is a long way to come from Chicago." She gestured toward a pleasant but shabby room off the foyer. "Let’s go into the parlor. May we offer you refreshment, captain?"

"No, thank you." As he followed her into the room, he noted the tray of food on the table. Though unrepentant about bribing himself into Miss Sherman’s presence, he said, "I’m sorry to have interrupted your tea."

"That’s quite all right." The older stepsister swooped down and snatched up the tray. "Opal and I will just go into the kitchen. You can leave your donation in the ginger jar by the door, captain."

When the stepsisters left, Brian sat down at the table, which now bore only a candlestick.

"Pay no attention to Elvira and her donations," Miss Sherman said. "Tell me why you’re here."

"I wish to make contact with a relative who has passed," he began, conscious of the irony that a medium would have to ask such a question. "But, in fairness, I must tell you that I’m a skeptic."

Without appearing the least offended she seated herself across from him. "Then why come to me?"

"I made a promise to placate another before I left for France. We agreed that if anything happened to either of us, we’d attempt to communicate—across the veil, I believe is the term." He stopped, suddenly bereft; there were no words for the emptiness and disbelief that flooded him when he thought of Bethany. Frowning, he forced himself to go on. "When I made the promise I never believed . . ."

"Of course not." She reached out to touch his arm, a sympathetic gesture, he thought at first.

Her touch was light, gentle, and he wouldn’t have minded if her hand had lingered on his sleeve. But she withdrew it instantly and blinked at him.

"You’re more than you seem." Confusion colored her voice.

"I beg your pardon?" He knew how mediums worked. If this was her way of probing for knowledge, she was going to find him a difficult subject.

"There is more of you." She shook her head, clearly puzzled, then studied him closely. "You’re . . . do you have a twin?"

He schooled his features to reveal no surprise. "Yes."

Her brows came together. "It’s your twin you wish to contact?"

Very good, he thought, wondering how he’d betrayed himself.

"Your twin is a sister." Miss Sherman closed her eyes. "Her name begins with a B. . . ."

He remained silent, determined not to let any subtle prying make him give up clues that led to the next "revelation."

Her eyes opened, and she smiled. "How silly of me. Of course, a B. You’re Brian. She is . . . it’s a soft sounding name. Sweet. Biblical."

Faced with her smile, his determination vanished. It seemed only natural to fill in the blank for her. "Bethany."

"Yes." Her engaging smile broadened.

A whisper of warning slid down his spine. How easily she’d made him answer. He’d driven to Springfield, where his family was unknown, to ensure that information about him would be unavailable. If, by some impossible chance, he made contact with Bethany, the experience must be genuine. He would not be fleeced by a fraud, however charming.

Yet how had she known he and Bethany were twins?

"Did you bring something of hers with you?" Miss Sherman asked.

"No, the other mediums didn’t seem to need anything."

"It isn’t necessary, but it can help," she said, ignoring his reference to her competitors. "Do you have anything she gave you?"

Warily, Brian pulled from his pocket a ceramic key chain fob shaped like a four-leaf clover and placed the beloved good luck piece on the table next to the candlestick. "She gave me this as a farewell gift."

"Perfect. Now, I need your understanding, too, captain." She gazed frankly into his eyes. "It doesn’t matter if you’re a skeptic or a believer. I cannot promise that you’ll find what you seek. Crossing the veil is seldom as straightforward or as satisfying as people want to believe it is."

He was intrigued. She was the first medium to doubt the outcome of her own reading. "I told you, I don’t believe."

She assessed him for a long moment.

He wondered what she thought of him. Not that it mattered, but he knew that after nearly a year in the trenches in France, he wasn’t the dapper young lawyer he’d been when he’d joined the army. He’d been a smooth-cheeked fool, bursting with confidence and righteously determined to defeat the damn Germans for making war on civilian ocean liners. He’d been certain he could save the world—and come home to find that Bethany’s illness had improved, if not vanished.

But the war and the loss of Bethany had wrung the optimism from him. Now there were lines on his face, scars on his body—and a gaping emptiness in his soul.

Silently Amanda Sherman took the box of matches and lighted the candle between them. A bright flame sprang to life.

He knew she’d decided something—in his favor, he assumed.

"Everyone believes in something." She reached for his hands. "Let’s see if we can reach your sister."

His hands were cool and strong as they clasped hers. In his eyes, Amanda glimpsed a sensitive side that his demeanor didn’t reveal. Skeptic though he might be, he wanted desperately to reach his sister.

"Captain, I’m not like other mediums," she began.

"So I see," he said. "Call me Brian, please."

"Then, Brian, call me Amanda," she returned, glad to see him relax a bit. "There will be no floating lights or table rapping. I don’t even do automatic writing."

"No alphabet board and planchette?"

"No, nor any crystal ball."

"That answers my next question." He grinned at her.

She liked his features: level brows, intent eyes, a straight nose, and a mouth that especially fascinated her. Supple, despite a hint of stubbornness.

Suddenly, unbidden, a vision came to her: Brian Mason taking her into his arms and kissing her, a long passionate kiss that made her lips tingle. His hands roamed over her back, her bottom, then cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples. . . .

Stifling a gasp, she bit her lip, and pain shattered the incredible sensation—a trick she’d learned to control visions. Good heavens, she was becoming as frustrated an old maid as Opal. Closing her eyes briefly, she opened them to glance guiltily at the man across the table.

"Your next question?" she prompted, struggling to hold the thread of the conversation.

"What’s the keepsake for?" He was looking at her closely, a perplexed frown on his brow.

"Ah, guidance, for the spirit," she stammered. "We light the candle, place the keepsake between us, and take hands across the table. Then we’ll see what comes. If what I say is correct, I would appreciate your corroboration. If I’m wrong, say so."

"Right." He glanced at the key chain, his grip still strong and steady.

Then he met her gaze once again above the candle flame. Uncertainty wavered in his eyes, yet she caught sight of the barest trace of hope in his grieving soul. At that moment, she knew that whatever the cost—whether or not Bethany appeared—she had to help him find peace.

"We begin." She clutched his hands tighter and looked into the flame. The essence of light mesmerized her senses. She closed her eyes and allowed the images to flow. They came in rapid succession, like water sluicing over and around her. Images too quick for her to attach words to them.

Cold. Ceaseless drumming of rain on canvas. Cries. Cordite stinging her nose. Trees naked against sky. Stink of rot. Barbed wire coiling through mud. Hunger. The flash and boom of an explosion. Numbness. A shredded uniform on a grinning skeleton.

She gasped. Her eyes snapped open.

The candle flame between them flickered.

"Are you okay?" Brian asked, his tone laconic.

Her heart pounded as she looked at him. The images she’d glimpsed were his, without doubt. Her heart ached for him, but his frown warned that sympathy would be unwelcome.

"I’m all right," she lied.

"Were you in a trance? Am I to expect the voice of a spirit guide?" Derision iced his tone.

She gave a dry laugh. "No. No spirit guide."

Closing her eyes again, she concentrated. His grip remained firm as she searched again for the message he sought.

"You and Bethany were close," she began, reaching beyond the immediate images, hoping to snag something besides the obvious. To her disappointment, only the vaguest notions drifted her way. "You lost your parents when you were young, so you became close. You studied a subject having to do with scales, a thing that is analytical, logical. . . . It requires decisiveness but is subject to manipulation." The next revelation brought a smile to her lips, and she opened her eyes to study his face. "You’re strong-willed but fair and want to hear both sides before making up your mind about an issue. You despise manipulation. You’re no politician."

"Never," he admitted with a reluctant smile. "I studied law."

She squeezed his hands, closed her eyes, and went back to searching. She could hardly expect to astound him merely by divining his profession. She waited for more impressions, essences. . . . Nothing . . . nothing . . . Then a small warmth tingled through her.

"Bethany is different from you, though you shared a womb. She is fair and less . . . robust. And you’re dark." Amusement filled the warmth. "You even made a private joke of the difference. People thought she was the good twin and you, the bad. But the truth was the opposite."

"Yes," he drawled, as if the affirmation was being dragged from him. After a pause he added, "Is there a message?"

"Not exactly . . ." The visualization puzzled her. Flat. Many young women facing her. Colorless. White against darkness. "It’s posed. A tableau, I think," she said without opening her eyes. "I see young women. A group. Grass at their feet. Such dignified smiles. White caps. Was your sister a nurse?"

He leaned back in his chair, his grasp loosening. "My sister hated hospitals."

"Strange." His response confused her. The image of nurses was becoming stronger. Happiness and contentment radiated from it. She was meant to see this, whatever it was. He was meant to know about it. "I’m getting the sense that she spent much time with an activity having to do with a hospital. The young ladies are wearing a uniform with white pinafores and caps. I’m not sure which is your sister. Oh, but she’s proud to be there."

"I told you, Bethany hated hospitals." His baritone had grown flat, cold. She was aware of him withdrawing, sorry he’d asked for a reading. "What you’re seeing can’t have anything to do with my sister."

"Perhaps she volunteered for the war effort while you were away." Amanda wondered why he would reject an image of his twin that was, to her, incredibly strong and clear.

"No, she didn’t." Abruptly he released her hands and stood up. His eyes glinted. "Bethany died of a reoccurrence of tuberculosis after years of remission. She loathed hospitals. She’d never have joined a volunteer medical group, nor would she have been allowed on a ward floor."

Amanda released the image reluctantly. The candle flame had been extinguished, leaving only a frayed thread of smoke drifting upward. She’d lost the image—and him. "There may be another explanation."

"Like what?" He snatched the key fob off the table and started for the foyer.

She followed him, keen to ease his disappointment, but Elvira and Opal appeared, blocking the doorway.

"How’s it going?" Elvira asked with a fixed smile. "We could hear you in the kitchen. Are the spirits being uncooperative?"

"I’ve had enough of spirits." He glared at each of them in turn, then brushed past. "Goodbye, ladies. And don’t worry—I’ll send a donation."

"And I’ll return it," Amanda called after him.

Elvira’s brittle smile vanished, and she caught at Amanda’s arm. "Get the money now."

"No." Sick at heart, Amanda pulled free. "Brian, wait."

She caught up with him putting on his hat. He’d been a frowning skeptic when he came in the door, a man unwilling to believe in the world beyond. Somehow, she’d made him even less willing. She’d also made him disbelieve in her, and that, she was ashamed to admit, felt even worse. "I neglected to mention one more thing," she said to him.

"And that is?" His back was to her, his hand on the doorknob.

"Please, give what I described serious consideration," she said. "The connection may not be immediately clear. Ask others about it. Friends, relatives—they might know something you’re unaware of."

He seemed to be listening but didn’t answer.

"Oh, Brian, I wish I had all the answers for you," she said, daring to go on despite his evident disapproval. "But I don’t. I’m sorry."

"So am I," he said, icy regret in his voice. "When you knew Bethany and I were twins, I’d hoped you were different. But you’re not."

He opened the door and walked out into the fall twilight.

Sorrow and frustration swept over her as she watched him drive off. The curse of Cassandra had struck again.

*************************

by

Lucy Grijalva

"I will find that bastard Henry Tudor, and I will kill him."

The muttered words were all that kept Sir Thomas Kelham going. They had first exploded inside his head as he had staggered from the battlefield near the village of Bosworth, leading his horse. Both of them had been—and still were—filthy, exhausted, and bleeding from a dozen small wounds. God willing, both would survive long enough to hunt down the murderous usurper and put a dagger deep into his heart.

Thomas knew but did not care what happened after that. His death would be either instantaneous or slow and horrible. It mattered not. All that mattered was avenging the traitorous murder on bloody Bosworth field of his friend, his mentor, Richard of Gloucester, King Richard III, known also as Dickon.

Thomas rode slowly down a deserted path between thickets of trees, intent on making his way to London as stealthily as possible. It had been several days since he had escaped the cursed turncoats and foreigners who began hunting the remnants of Dickon’s loyal coterie as the battle wound down. He moved slowly; the countryside was crawling with Henry Tudor’s men. He knew he was somewhere south of Leicester but did not know where precisely. Soon he must reach London.

When his horse shuffled and whickered, Thomas straightened in the saddle, ignoring the pain in his head, his back, his leg. He dismounted quietly and listened for distant hoofbeats. He did not intend to be caught.

He heard nothing. Even the birds were silent. Indeed, that fact, added to his faith in the horse’s instincts, made him grab the reins and dive into an opening in the heavy woods beside the path. They moved quickly back into the cool, dark arms of the forest. Thomas prayed they hadn’t left a trail of broken shrubs behind them.

Turning to look behind him, he took a backward step—and tripped on a root.

"Ouch!" whispered the root.

"God’s Blood!" Whirling around, he reached for the sword that no longer hung at his side. Lost on the battlefield like so much else.

Of course, it was not a root. It was a pixie.

She was half-hidden in the foliage, sitting stiffly on a log and rubbing her ankle as she gazed up at him with wary eyes.

Thomas stood speechless for a moment. Then he blinked and realized she was not a pixie, but a woman. A small, young, terrified one at that, wearing a dirty blue gown. Her heart-shaped cap was crooked, nearly falling off, and her dark hair floated around her head as she whipped her face away and wrapped her arms about herself.

He controlled his first reaction, which would have involved a lot of shouting, and relaxed a little. She was not a likely threat. Unless she ran screaming from the forest and brought the Tudor’s men down upon his head . . .

"Forgive me, madam," he said gravely. "I did not see you sitting there, else I would have stepped around you."

She glanced at him quickly, and some color crept into her cheeks. "You are King Richard’s man!"

"Aye. Is it so plain?" He would have to be careful. No telling what loyalties might bind her.

She smiled, and suddenly the dirt and the wild hair didn’t matter anymore. She was very pretty. He was not looking for a woman, but he was not dead, either—yet.

"If you are hiding from the new king’s men, sir, I suggest you find a different tunic. One that doesn’t bear white roses."

He looked down at himself in dismay. To make travel easier, he had discarded his armor. But the shirt he had worn so proudly under it as he had gone into battle had been embroidered by his wife with the symbol of the house of York.

Anne had been heavy with their third child at the time. The tunic had turned out to be her final gift to him. Neither she nor the babe had survived the birth.

Now the shirt was torn and bloodied—and an immediate signal to any Tudor ruffian who crossed his path. He must have been blind and stupid not to have thought of it himself.

He looked at the wench. "Thank you. I will see what I can do to remedy such, ah, risky clothing." He cleared his throat. "You are also . . . um . . . ?"

"Hiding? Aye." She shivered. "They will kill me—or worse—if they find me."

He frowned. "For what crime?"

"For my hall. My home." Her expression crumpled, and he saw the tears start to flow just before she hid her face against her knees. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

Thomas looked around uneasily. They were deep enough in the woods, safe, he hoped, from bloodthirsty knights traveling the roads in search of men like him—and women like her.

He need not embrace her troubles as his own. He had a duty to perform that was more important than one frightened wench. He could leave her here and move on. Southward, toward London.

But . . .

He lowered himself to the ground, pain flaring in several limbs. "They will not find us here. Please . . . " He reached out awkwardly to pat her back, then thought better of it. He was not in the habit of worrying about a woman’s feelings.

She raised her head and swiped her hand across her face. "They will. They are in the woods. I saw one of them."

Thomas would not have thought he could move so quickly in his condition. He jumped to his feet and grabbed the horse’s reins. "Why did you not say so sooner? We need to move on."

She smiled through her tears. "We?"

"Come," he said roughly. "I will take care of you." He wondered whether he could even take care of himself but shoved the thought aside.

She perched on his horse as he led the tired animal deeper into the woods, away from the lane and the cluster of cottages that were set at the foot of the gently rolling hills he had passed shortly before reaching the forest. The cottages stood in the shadow of a large manor house. He didn’t know what the village was called, knew only it was on the way to London, in the roundabout route he was traveling.

When he felt it was safe to talk, he said, "Why do they want your house?"

"They think King Henry will award it to them if they already hold it." She was silent for a moment. "Fah! They are fools."

"And . . . they thought you . . . ?"

"They think I come with the house."

"The manor we a short while ago?"

"Aye."

"Who are you?" he asked baldly.

"Lady Cecily Bowen. This is Midhampton. It is my home. And I will take it back."

Startled, Thomas stopped walking and turned to look at her. "Bowen? Wife to Sir John Bowen?"

"Aye."

He crossed himself. So she had been widowed for nigh on two years, her husband slain fighting Buckingham’s rebellion. "I knew him but slightly, but he was a good man. He went down with his sword in his hand."

"That is how he would have wanted it," she said, and a shadow crossed her face.

He thought of the aging knight Sir John Bowen, loyal to Dickon till the end. He must have been a score of years older than his pixie-like lady. Thomas wondered how long they had been wed. She seemed a mere babe. Then he wondered if she had been grateful for her release . . . and slammed the door on such thoughts, surprised and ashamed of himself. He was not in the habit of worrying about what a woman thought.

"Tell me, sir, your own name."

He started. They had reached a little clearing in the woods, and he looked around them carefully before stopping to introduce himself. "Thomas Kelham, knight." He inclined his head. "Lately in the service of our king Dickon but . . ."

"Hush!" She twisted in the saddle, looking all around them, though there was nothing but trees and tangled undergrowth to see. She looked undecided for a moment, then said crossly, "Oh, I must trust you. I have no choice, have I?"

"Lady, there is no time for games. What is it you wish to say?"

"Quickly—do you see the little path up ahead? Between the great oak tree and the two smaller ones?"

"Aye, perhaps . . ." He scratched his head. It was not truly a path, merely a bit of an opening in the undergrowth. Then, at the same time he heard her sudden intake of breath, his head came up sharply. They had both heard it this time. Muffled voices in the woods to their right.

"Take the path," she hissed. "There is a deserted hut, a woodcutter’s cottage—he is long dead, and we can bide there till they are gone."

It was too late. Into the clearing boldly rode two knights. The first one, wearing a scruffy red beard, was saying in French, "She cannot have gone far, a woman alone—" He stopped at the sight of the fugitives on the other side of the clearing and pulled hard on the reins, twisting his horse’s head.

The other knight nearly ran into its backside before he, too, came to an abrupt halt. The first one recovered quickly and raced toward them with a furious roar. His sword waved in the air above his head.

Thomas reacted quickly, slapping his horse’s rump in hopes it would take the lady out of harm’s way. He may have had no sword, but he was not utterly defenseless. He pulled his dagger from its scabbard, dodged out of the way of the oncoming warhorse, then edged back into the cover of the trees. As he wiped sweat from his brow, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other man, darker and slighter than the first one, wheel his mount and go after Lady Bowen.

"Come, sweeting, we mean you no harm . . ." the liar crooned as he charged after her.

The red-beard’s horse swerved and came to a skidding stop, prancing in place for a moment. Thomas knew the rider was trying to decide what to do; he would be at a disadvantage trying to chase a man on foot through the dense woods. The man wore no helmet—who would think he had need one in this conquered country?—but otherwise was well plated.

He peered into the trees, looking for his quary, and Thomas remained very still. Finally he snarled and slid slowly, clumsily off the horse, hampered by his heavy armor. Breathing hard, he started to tramp into the forest. But it was too late.

Before he could take two steps, Thomas closed the distance between them and pressed the knife to the knight’s unprotected neck. No coward, the man struggled awkwardly, but this time he was on the losing side.

"For Dickon," Thomas growled. He slashed the red-beard’s throat and threw him aside, leaving him face down in the vine-covered soil, twitching and gasping for air with wet, sucking noises.

If Thomas had to fight with all odds against him, at least he could thank the Blessed Lord for sending him the village idiot as an opponent. He took the idiot’s sword and began searching for the others.

There was no sign of his horse anywhere, but it was an easy task to find the other knight. He was thrashing around in the undergrowth and saplings trying to hold onto his horse’s reins and the struggling wench at the same time. Lady Bowen put up a good fight. She had already left several deep, running scratches on the knight’s face. And . . . was that a bite mark on his ear?

When Thomas approached, sword in hand, the knight sneered and pushed the wench away. Thomas slowed, assessing the situation. The two of them were equally armed but not equally armored. That had been to his advantage in the last clash but would work against him in the coming one. Still, he had no choice. He raised the sword and charged his opponent.

The other man swung his own gleaming weapon, ready for battle. But then, suddenly, he dropped to the ground—the back of his head caved in and Lady Bowen standing over him gripping a large, bloody stone.

Thomas saw what was coming but, though he tried, could not check his momentum in time. With a helpless cry, he watched his sword slice into the lady’s side before he yanked it back.

She looked at him for a moment, shocked. Then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed on top of the dead French knight.

*************************

by

Candice Kohl

Nicholas Sutcliffe sucked in a breath, opened his eyes, and squinted at the sky. The autumn day had dawned clear, but now it looked as though rain was moving in. It wasn’t—musket and cannon fire had left a low, acrid cloud of smoke to color the air gray.

The gunfire had ceased. The battle cries had faded from blood-curdling shouts to soft moans. Horses no longer snorted, and the earth had ceased to rumble beneath their thundering hooves. Nearly a month’s siege had ended abruptly, with little more than an hour’s battle.

Wincing, Nicholas released the hilt of his saber and grabbed his throbbing shoulder, pushing himself up. Blood from a sword wound oozed between his splayed fingers as blood rushed behind his eyes from a pounding ache in his skull. Stopping before he gained his feet, he sat still and attempted to ignore his pain.

This place—Spring Hill, they called it—looked nothing like it had when he’d first laid eyes on it. Bodies lay everywhere, hundreds of them sprawled in grotesque and unnatural positions, all sleeping the eternal sleep of the dead. Though others walked, limped, and shuffled among the corpses, it seemed to him that far too many men would fail to leave the battlefield on their own legs.

There was no doubt who’d won the conflict. Yet he felt no joy in the triumph. No one could feel proud when the cost of victory had proved so dear.

"Annie," someone nearby muttered. "Oh, Annie."

Nicholas scuttled toward the fallen militia man, who was lying mere feet away. The Colonial’s chest barely moved, and his ruined homespun shirt was wet with blood that glistened a more vivid hue than Nicholas’ own crimson coat.

"Hold on," he urged, using his good arm to raise the man’s head. "Help will be come soon. Your family—"

"I-I’ve no family here. Not . . . in Savannah."

It made no difference to Nicholas that a short while ago they’d been enemies. This Liberty Boy—hardly older than he himself—was suddenly at the end of his life. He deserved whatever comfort Nicholas could provide.

"I’ll see you’re sent home when your wound is tended," he promised, knowing, sadly, that he never would. The Colonial’s belly wound would kill him long before any surgeon even could look at it.

The fellow grimaced and coughed blood that trickled in a thin line through the whiskers on his chin. "Thank . . . thank you," he whispered. "Annie needs . . . me. I vowed . . . I’d never leave her."

Nicholas strained to hear the words, and as he did, he thought perhaps it would have better served God’s world if he were the one lying in the dirt, his life’s blood seeping from a mortal wound. He’d yet to find love, let alone a wife. He had no children, either. Had he died helping to put down this insurrection in the king’s name, precious few would mourn his passing.

The Colonial fingered a pouch at his waist; Nicholas quickly loosened its string. But before he could retrieve the contents, the man made a small noise and rolled toward him, burrowing a dirty but bloodless face against his chest.

A powerful wind snatched a scrap of coarse, yellow paper from the leather bag. Yet it also cleared a swatch through the stagnant haze hanging over the battlefield. Filtered sunshine lighted the smoke that still swirled about, so that, for some moments, Nicholas and his unlikely companion appeared to be haloed by a heavenly illumination.

Then the wind gusted again, violently. Bowing his head and holding the Continental close to protect him from the sand and grit pelting them, Nicholas found it difficult to breathe. Though he turned his face away from the wind, he could not inhale. He began to feel light-headed, almost weightless.

He gasped when it seemed someone gave him a sharp blow to the belly. And in that instant, the wind died as though it had been merely passing through on its way to another place.

Feeling heavy and anchored again, he dragged in a deep breath and righted himself to find that self-same scrap of paper he thought had blown away clinging to the front of his coat. Plucking it off the dirty, stained wool, he read the words written in a fine hand:

Nicholas Gnann

Ebenezer, State of Georgia

"I have your identity paper, Gnann," he told the fellow, nudging his shoulder. "We have our Christian names in common."

He glanced at Gnann, who now lay face up, in the crook of his arm. The Colonial’s closed eyes would never open, never see his beloved Annie, again.

* * *

"I’ve no need to be in a bloody hospital," Nicholas growled. "My wound will heal well enough on its own."

Gritting his teeth, he fell back against his pallet, no longer straining against the hands attempting to hold him down. As the surgeon sewed the hole closed in his left shoulder, he bore the pain stoically.

"Consider it a reprieve, Sutcliffe. That’s your name, soldier, is it not? Aye, you’ve earned a holiday from warring. So few of our own were killed in the battle, we’ve the luxury of treating the wounded. And you’ve the blessing of time to allow yourself to heal properly. ’Til the next battle comes ’round, that is," the surgeon added with a slow shake of his head.

Nicholas winced when the man splashed his wound with brandy before covering it with a bandage. "I’d prefer to drink the stuff, rather than be bathed in it."

"Here. One swig," the physician offered.

As he raised himself on his good arm to accept the flask, his head swam. He managed to take a long swallow, and as he did, he peered at his surroundings. "Is that an altar?" he asked, motioning with his chin.

"Aye, lad, it is. You’re in a church we commandeered to house our wounded."

"But . . . I was aboard a vessel . . ."

"Lie down, man," the surgeon ordered gently, relieving him of the flask. "You took a wound to your shoulder, but you took a blow to your head, as well. Get some sleep, now. You’ll feel far better once you’ve rested."

Nicholas did lie down again, this time touching his brow with his fingertips. He felt a bandage wrapped around his head and tried to determine when he’d been injured there. He couldn’t. But an image flashed in his mind of being hit by shrapnel in his gut. Immediately, he looked down at his belly, surprised but relieved to see no bloody bandage.

The altar stood before him. And the pulpit, which sat high, with a pair of curved stairs leading up to it. The entire sanctuary seemed oddly familiar. But Nicholas told himself the church was much the same as any other.

* * *

"Nicholas."

The sound of his name on a woman’s lips dragged him from his doze. Opening his eyes, he turned his head slightly.

He knew her immediately. Though two women stood near his pallet, he focused on the one he felt quite sure had said his name. She was petite, as the French would say, yet the low, square neckline of her simple dress revealed the curves of a nicely rounded bosom. Tendrils of light brown hair, which had escaped the mass she’d pinned up and crowned with a lacey cap, skimmed her oval face. That face proved the perfect canvas for her finely arched brows, her pert nose, and eyes he knew without question were blue. As blue as a summer sky.

But he couldn’t see her eyes at the moment. She’d turned her head away from him as she spoke with the other lady.

"I’ve still had no word," she said, her voice taut with strain. "Oh, Ruth, all that I know is so many of our own died in the battle at Savannah. A thousand, they say. Perhaps more! Nicholas Henry Gnann could well be among the dead."

"You do not know that," the woman, Ruth, said firmly. "Thus, you should not fear the worst. It could take him a long time to make his way home or even to get word to you."

"Nicholas will not come home with the British here. I may not know for months if he survived. And what if he did, only to be killed in a future battle?"

She was Annie, Nicholas realized slowly. Annie Gnann, the dead Continental’s wife. How was it possible that he’d come to her, that he’d been delivered to the town of Ebenezer, where the Gnanns lived, without any scheming on his own part?

Yet he was here, and all he had to do was speak up and confirm her worst fear. But he was unable to do it. Not knowing her husband’s fate would leave the woman distraught; learning he’d been killed would prove a crushing blow that Nicholas had no desire to deliver. Given time, she’d be better prepared to hear the sad news. God willing, someone else would tell her.

"Stay busy, dear," Ruth urged. "The men here need a bit of washing, and there are bandages to be cut and rolled."

"I thoroughly dislike tending them," Annie admitted, dropping her voice, though she ground out her words. "Who are these British officers to order us about as though we are their lackeys? I’m a free woman, with crops to harvest and livestock to tend, and no husband to do either. Yet I do have two young sons who require a watchful eye. Instead, I’m neglecting them to nurse men who have slaughtered fine Patriots in the name of King George."

"Christopher and Paul are not mischief-makers, Annie. They are not likely to get themselves into any trouble. Give them enough chores to keep them busy. They can help you with the farm until Nicholas returns."

Nodding her bowed head, Annie turned away. Ruth put a hand on her shoulder and accompanied her through the maze of pallets until Nicholas could no longer see them without changing his position.

Yet he saw her with his mind’s eye. And in that vision, Annie Gnann’s hair was neither pinned up nor covered. Gone, too, was her serviceable brown dress. Instead her hair was long and loose, and she was wearing a nightgown of fine, snowy cambric, edged in lace at the neck and the sleeves.

His pulse quickened, and he felt ashamed. Was he lusting after that poor Colonial’s widow? Though he couldn’t deny she aroused in him primitive urges, he realized she ignited other feelings, too. Feelings he’d never felt before. Feelings he refused to consider.

Purposely, he closed his eyes tightly and erased all thought. In time, sleep covered him again.

* * *

"Can you eat?"

It was her voice, Annie’s voice. At first, Nicholas thought he’d begun to dream of her. But when he opened his eyes, he found her standing above him, a bowl in her hands. Too quickly, he sat up, and a pain shot through his skull. Ignoring it, he said, "Yes, madam, of course, I can eat."

"I’m sure you are hungry. I was asking if you needed assistance."

"Fortunately, it was my left arm that was injured, not the one I eat with."

He reached to take the bowl from her. She hesitated a moment, her eyes moving from his bandaged shoulder to the center of his chest. Nicholas knew she was thinking it would be better if he’d been stabbed closer to his heart and killed.

But she handed him the bowl, which he saw was filled with stew. From her apron pocket, she retrieved a spoon, which she also held out to him.

"Mrs. Gnann."

Her brows came together in a frown. "You know me?"

He did, but he lied, "I overheard someone say your name."

One of her fine eyebrows arched suspiciously. "Oh. What is it you need?"

"I was wondering about this place."

"Many of your wounded were removed here, to New Ebenezer. The town is some miles upriver from Savannah."

"That’s not what I was referring to."

"Did the blow to your head affect your memory? You do know you’re presently in the colony of Georgia."

"Presently?" he repeated, peering at her curiously. "Have you heard something? Are any of us to move on to another colony? South Carolina, perhaps?"

She made a small, contemptuous sound. "Your officers do not include me in their plans for war. It is my opinion, and many others’, too, that your forces shan’t always remain victorious. When the Continental Army prevails, this place will be the state, not the colony, of Georgia. My husband—"

She broke off, apparently surprised with herself for having mentioned him. And having done so, her fears for his safety seemed to rush to the fore, knocking her off balance.

Nicholas quelled an urge to stand, to take her in his arms and comfort her. Gnann had been a fool to leave his loving wife to fight a war the Continentals couldn’t win. The revolutionaries would never defeat Britain’s strong, organized, well-equipped army. The rebels were a rag-tag lot with little training and insufficient ammunition for their guns and artillery. And they were only some of the colonists, for many remained loyal to England.

He set the bowl aside and looked at her again. "What I wished to know was the name of this church. The sanctuary"—he gestured with his good arm—"looks familiar. Yet I know I’ve not been here before. It is Anglican, is it not?"

"No. It is a Lutheran Church."

"Oh?" He was surprised.

"We’re of Austrian stock here, in Ebenezer. None of us English, none of us Anglican."

None of us loyal to King George. Well, he’d certainly known that.

Almost guiltily, Nicholas tore his gaze from Annie and glanced about again. The brick floor remained littered with bedding, bodies, and a disarray of accoutrements required by the ill and injured. Yet he suddenly envisioned the room filled with people standing patiently, all of them wearing smiles and their best clothes. None of the men wore military uniforms, and beside them stood women and children. In that momentary flash, at the candle-lit altar, he could clearly see a vicar presiding over a marriage ceremony. The couple joining in wedlock were Annie and a dark-haired man, the fellow who’d died in his arms, Nicholas Gnann.

When he blinked, the vision vanished. Impulsively, he touched his own hair, free of its tie at the moment and badly in need of a wash. Still, it was fair, as pale as corn silk, not dark. Yet despite knowing that he’d only imagined the Gnanns’ wedding day, it felt oddly like a memory.

"Are you well?" Annie asked.

Again, he looked at her. "As well as I could hope for, with a nagging ache in my head and a throbbing wound in my shoulder."

"You should thank God you’re alive to feel the pain."

Her words were sharp, but he saw her lower lip tremble before she lifted her hems and hurried away, slipping around the sanctuary to flee through a small door behind it.

She knew. Without having been told, she knew her husband was dead. She simply would not accept it until she heard it said. Nicholas couldn’t blame her, since it seemed clear she’d loved her husband as well as he’d loved her.

How difficult it had to be for Annie Gnann to nurse the very men she must believe had taken her husband’s life. Nicholas understood that she felt little compassion for him or his fellow soldiers, who’d invaded her town, violated her church. Still, he sensed that she was angry with him. And he very much disliked it.