by Beth Trissel
“Nor I,” Mary assured him. “We will always remember your kindness and courage.” Her daughters also appeared duly obliged to him for their brothers’ safety.
The three boys were sorely missed, especially at planting and harvest time, but the girls were hard workers. Mennonites raised their children to love God and work.
“May God keep Stephen, John, and Luke safe and bring them home soon,” Jack offered, as blessings were flying around him.
“Amen.” Paul blinked at the sheen in his blue eyes. “We are giving you and your wife the chamber at the far end of the hall for as long as you have need. The girls will fetch towels, fresh water, food, and that hot drink you requested for a late wedding supper. If we had received word of your marriage sooner, we would have roasted a turkey.” He brightened. “Tomorrow.”
No barrage of questions? Jack was pleasantly surprised. “Thank you.”
Mary made a shooing gesture. “Off with you. We’ll not keep you standing about entertaining us on your wedding night.”
Evie startled beside him. “But your own sleep—”
The refusal in their hostess’s eyes and squared jaw cut her short. “Will keep until we’ve properly seen to you two.”
What choice had Jack other than to comply, with the family looking on, expectation writ in their honest faces? He couldn’t insist he’d sleep on the floor and send Evie upstairs alone. Besides, he didn’t object to accompanying her, even though he should by all that was decent. He wouldn’t harm her, and must keep an eye on his charge, which she had apparently become. He had no idea what else to do with her.
This night was turning out vastly differently than the encounter he’d anticipated with Sam Hobbs. The irksome hound was probably waiting for him out in the fields, or camped beneath a canopy of trees, or behind a rocky outcropping in the not-too-distant mountains. Meanwhile, Jack was sharing a bed with the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
How Sam would howl if he knew. He stifled a chuckle at the irony fate had handed him.
Sobering under the avid gaze of the onlookers, he took Evie’s arm. “Come, wife,” he said, with a respectful nod at the assembly. “Let us leave these kind people and retire to the chamber they have graciously allowed us.”
He didn’t dare risk a glance at her. They were headed for the very room he’d heard so much about, and not remotely in the manner he expected she would wish to visit it with him. If she cared to go there with him at all.
She gathered her full skirts and he escorted her across the parlor. The quiver he detected told him she didn’t want to venture there in any manner whatsoever. Did the whispers she’d spoken of alarm her? She’d said they were gone now. Did she fear their return? Difficult to discern what was going on in her head at any given moment.
“Guten nacht!” chorused after them as they climbed the steps.
“Good night!” he called over his shoulder.
“See you in a bit with food and warm water,” Mary reminded him, lest he forget they would soon traipse after him and Evie.
He signaled his understanding. “Denki!” he rejoined, using the German for thank you. That should gratify their hostess.
Evie was mute. Likely, the Wengers thought her shy. Maybe she was, but she hadn’t struck Jack that way. She’d had plenty to say to him earlier. No doubt, he would hear more shortly.
A candle flickered on the stand at the top of the stairs, casting shadows on the white walls and illuminating her pale face. “We’re still in the past,” she said in a small voice.
“My present,” he indulged her.
“I thought time might change when we mounted the stairs.”
He’d never expected that. “Take you back to the future?”
She tilted her head at him, her eyes crinkled. “I get what that means now.”
“You are way ahead of me.” He was pondering how to convince the celebratory family they were consummating their union, as expected, while remaining apart in the same bed…
First, their wedding supper.
An ache in his gut betrayed his wish that it truly was their special night. Apart from friends like the Wengers, and the brief companionship of the men he guided through the mountains, his life was solitary. Wives did not simply appear. Whatever Evie might be, she was totally unique, and he tightened his hold on her.
The chamber she dreaded lay straight ahead, its shadowy door revealed by candlelight. He gestured at it. “Shall we?”
She straightened her shoulders. “Brace yourself.”
“Think I can brave it. I was in Pickett’s Charge.” Nothing could ever touch that.
Chapter Four
Like a butterfly soaring between the future and the past, Evie had swiftly arrived in the nineteenth century with no clue how long she was staying. A while longer, it would seem. Maybe indefinitely. And now, here she was poised before her former bedroom door with her pretend husband, Jack Ramsey.
She never saw that coming, or him. He’d swept her up in a whirlwind of heart-pounding thrills and the deepest shock imaginable.
Had Grandma G. missed her yet, or was she sound asleep? A pang of guilt jarred her. The goodhearted woman would be worried sick to discover her granddaughter absent from the house which, weirdly, she’d remained in. No one at either end of this bizarre journey would believe she’d bridged time, but she made no protest at being escorted by the handsome cowboy, even if he’d shamelessly announced their wedding night. And that didn’t trouble her conscience the way it should.
The upstairs hallway appeared as it must have done over one hundred and fifty years ago. The boards creaking beneath her feet might be the same heart pine floor she’d walked on earlier tonight, unless the wood had been replaced since these early years. Little else remained the same as the house she’d known a short while ago.
No framed family portraits or flowery prints hung on the white plaster walls Grandma G. had painted a pale mauve. None of her grandmother’s teddy bear collection overflowed wicker baskets or an heirloom cradle. A similar wooden trunk as hers, minus the pile of decorative pillows the pillow-mad woman heaped on, might also contain winter blankets. This was it for similarities, apart from the herbal scents. These were timeless.
She caught the spicy minty blend of sage, horehound, and catmint. Someone must be fighting a cold and sore throat. She hoped none of the Wenger sisters had abandoned their sickbed for her, nor did she want to occupy it if they had. The girls appeared in robust health. Maybe the herbal treatment was a success, or perhaps they’d nursed one of the boys the family had concealed, and the scent lingered.
Immersed in the past, Evie gripped Jack’s left arm while he extended his right hand to the bedroom doorknob. The whispers were silent, but she was certain their origin lay behind the paranormal presence she’d sensed in the present-day version of the house. The question was what event had transpired to create this phenomenon, when had it occurred, and who did it involve? The presence was distinctly male.
Another thought occurred. What if Jack had something to do with the fragmented voice she’d heard? Had she been sent back to intervene for him? Given the tide of emotion swelling in her at his every look, touch, and gesture it seemed as if she had come for this exact purpose.
Wait. Was he in even greater danger than he knew? The present risk was plenty. Alarm tolled in her, and she swiveled her head at him.
He glanced down at her, arching his sandy brows. “What troubles you now?”
How could she explain? “I’m not sure yet.”
“Neither am I, sweetheart.” He lingered over the endearment as if he meant it.
Could he actually be falling for her, or was this part of his act? The Wengers were scrambling to be good hosts, heating water and food to carry up to the newlyweds. He didn’t need to pretend to be married until they reappeared.
Maybe he really was attracted to her, though she was fairly certain he considered her mental. Perhaps he didn’t hold little things like insanity against a girl? Maybe
on some deeper, nearly subconscious level, he believed her?
She’d had boyfriends, briefly; some older than her. None of those guys remotely resembled the man at her side. They didn’t make men like Jack anymore.
Was there any way to keep him?
Maybe… The strength of her wish surprised her.
Her thoughts whirring, she stayed as she was, her gaze fixed on his. The candle on the stand outside the door wavered in a cool breeze. She instinctively clutched her shawl as he returned her scrutiny above the dancing shadows.
Curiosity mixed with the admiration hinting in his eyes. He smiled encouragingly and flung open the door. “Look. Is this chamber so very terrifying?”
The bare bones of her bedroom lay behind the simply furnished space. Against one white wall stood a well-crafted bed frame, also a double size like hers, though not a four-poster bed such as she had. While she slept beneath a brightly colored quilt purchased at a Mennonite auction, this mattress was covered in a comforter pieced from scraps of somber clothing.
Beside the bed was a stand with a glowing white candle on it; another large trunk occupied the space at its foot. A linen washstand with a brown stoneware pitcher and basin, and narrow rod for draping hand towels, banked one wall. A slim cot stretched beyond it. She questioned if Jack might sleep there, and, just as quickly, concluded she didn’t want him to.
She scanned the far side of the room for the dreaded closet. A tall wooden dresser with six drawers had taken its place. She remembered him saying there was no closet in here, but the attic must remain—the creepy heart of the house.
She gestured at the wall. “Where’s the attic door?”
“Behind the dresser. That weighty piece must be pushed aside to open the door. The Wengers shut it behind any men hidden up there and shove the dresser back into place.”
“It’s a well concealed hideout,” she agreed. “But does this mean the men can’t get out on their own?”
He shook his head. “The dresser is heavy and wedges the door tightly. But no one poking around in the house will discover them, as long as they keep still.”
“The fire marshal would have something to say about it.”
His eyes creased in a puzzled expression. “Who?”
She was using unfamiliar terms again and started to wave aside his query, then stopped, her hand still upheld. Cold realization slammed her, as if she’d been rolled in the icy surf. Of course. The origin of the whispers was painfully clear.
“Dear God,” she blurted, clapping a palm to her forehead, and clutching her middle.
Jack scrutinized her, his brow furrowed, eyes searching. “What?”
Speaking was difficult in the dread sweeping through her, and she partly hunched over. “He’s afraid to call out loud.”
“Which he? Who are you speaking of?”
She pointed a trembling finger at the attic. “A man or boy is trapped up there.”
“Not now he isn’t.”
Her heart thudded in assurance of the chill truth. “No. But he will be. Maybe more than one. I’ve never been sure if the whispers belong to a single individual.”
A mix of concern and confusion clouded Jack’s gaze. “You aren’t making any sense.”
“Not yet. I’m trying to figure this all out.” A strident question occurred to her. “I could kick myself for not asking before, but what is today’s date?”
“I’m not sure of the exact day.” He brushed back his shoulder length hair and regarded her closely. “Mid-September, maybe later, eighteen sixty-four. Why?”
“Worse and worse.” She resisted the urge to tug at his sleeve and rush him from the house. The only way back to the future lay here, if the journey was even an option for him.
He bent nearer to her. “Why does the date matter?”
Her mind wheeling, gut churning, she battled to snatch partially recalled fragments of history from her memory. Her father had told her, so had Grandma G., more than once.
“It should matter more than it does, and would, if I could just remember what happens when. I know late September into October eighteen sixty-four is nightmarish in the valley. The season explains why the night air is cool, though. I thought it was June, like in the future, and I can’t see outside to tell the difference. Oh, man. I’ve got something important to tell you but don’t know where to begin—”
“Evie.” He gripped her shoulders in his firm clasp. “Calm down and tell me what’s going on.” His voice was stern, and his demeanor sharp, the officer in him showing.
“Sheridan’s coming,” she gasped.
He stared at her, his mouth ajar. “Major General Sheridan? The Union commander?”
“Who else?”
“How do you know his name?” Jack pressed. “You were a bit hazy on the war earlier.”
“Sheridan is hated in the valley to this day. My day, I mean. I’m not sure exactly when The Burning begins, but it’s in late September.”
“Burning?” He tightened his grip on her shoulders.
She gulped past the lump in her throat. “Sheridan’s going to torch barns, outbuildings, mills, harvested corn, wheat, stacks of hay, and a lot of houses. He’ll kill cows, sheep, pigs, chickens. Anything. Everything. What he doesn’t burn or kill, he’ll take. Horses will be rounded up. Any food he doesn’t destroy goes with his men. There won’t be a single chicken or cow left even for families with lots of children.”
Jack paled beneath his tanned skin. “Dear Lord, Evie. You make it sound like the end of the world.”
“For people living here, it will be. The cries of mothers and children will make no difference. Their pleas will fall on deaf ears.”
For a long moment, he weighed her terrible revelation, revulsion tightening his mouth and eyes. “I’m not saying it cannot happen, that the Union won’t bring hard war to civilians and target our green valley. Lord knows folk on both sides of this heinous conflict have suffered violence. But how do you know?”
“My dad and grandmother told me, and we learned in school. Families with deep roots here don’t forget The Burning.”
Lips pursed, he regarded her with a skeptical glint. “I need more to go on to be certain.”
“More than the ravings of a crazy woman, you mean?” She gestured at the walls, her sweeping hand encompassing the land around them. “By the time you have more information the valley will be in flames. Sheridan burns it in thirteen fateful days. Only the parts his men overlook, or the farms a decent officer under him chooses to spare, will remain untouched.”
“No.” Jack shook his head at her as if he’d seen a specter.
In a way, she was one, an apparition from the future bearing warning. Only she was quite real, as was the awful event she foretold. Somehow, she must convince him.
He dropped his hands from her shoulders, raked his hair, and clenched his fists. “I do not keep abreast of every skirmish and battle,” he said, pacing in a small circle. “Though I admit to admiration for those cadets who held off the invading army at New Market in May, keeping Billy Yank out of the valley.”
“Yes.” The reminder of their courage heartened her. “I’ve visited the New Market battlefield with my father. It’s a museum now. And each year, the Virginia Military Cadets read out the names of the boys killed in the battle to honor their memory.” She lowered her voice. “‘Put the boys in, and may God forgive me for the order.’ It’s what General Breckenridge said when he had to send the cadets in or lose the battle.”
Jack stopped abruptly and turned toward her, astonishment in his face. “How do you know all this?”
“I told you,” she said softly.
He shook his head, wonder in his eyes. “I don’t know if you are from the future, but maybe you can see it.”
“I can. Because it’s my past.”
Waving her to silence, he continued. “Say you’re right, and somehow you can predict what’s about to take place, what will happen to the Wengers?”
A shadow fell over her m
omentary elation. “They lose everything.”
He tensed. “What do you mean by everything?”
“Their barn is burned to the ground and their crops are taken or destroyed. The same for the livestock. This house is set ablaze and badly damaged. Anyone remaining inside would quickly succumb to the smoke.” Fresh alarm washed over her. “Whatever you do, don’t hide in the attic.”
“Why would I?”
“I have no idea, but don’t send any more refugees up there. He’s coming, Jack. Sheridan’s coming.” She sucked in a shuddering breath.
Jack gathered her to his chest, enveloping her in the primal scents of wind, fire, horse, and man, and his warm strength. “You tell an appalling bedtime tale. Why are the Mennonites made to suffer? They are pacifists and Union sympathizers, and already targeted by resentful Rebels and the Confederate sympathizers among their neighbors.”
“It’s horribly unfair, but they suffer doubly. Sheridan won’t spare more than a handful of them. The rest face a harsh winter with nothing much to live on or they must leave their farms and flee in wagons with his retreating army.”
“Hideous choice,” Jack muttered. “If what you say is true, maybe I should join Jubal Early’s Army of the Valley and fight to keep the devil out. But I’d be shot for desertion.”
“Too little, too late, anyway. My dad said Gettysburg was a big nail in the coffin for the Confederacy.”
Silence fell over Jack for a heavy moment. “Are you saying we lose?” His voice was husky.
She lifted her face and surveyed his solemn regard. It wasn’t lost on her he’d said we. “Yes. Next April. Lee surrenders to Grant at Appomattox Courthouse.” Her father would be proud of her recall.
His jaw tight, Jack said nothing.
Should she offer her condolences, comment on the inevitability of defeat, or try and persuade him it was really for the best to preserve the Union? She could tell him the slaves were freed. He’d appreciate that…
It was difficult to determine what might be best to say. She’d heard of psychics intervening with Civil War ghosts, telling them the war was over and to move on. But what of a man as deeply invested and torn as Jack was?