The Valiant Hearts Romance Collection

by Kristin Billerbeck

  Lucy shared her deepening faith one evening when she and Daddy Doc had a few minutes free. “Knowing God really is in control changes everything,” she said. “That’s what keeps you going, isn’t it?”

  Dr. Luke gathered her in his arms and held her close. Hot tears fell on the kerchief that kept Lucy’s curly hair out of her eyes. She had discarded her disguise soon after reaching the front and proving herself so invaluable, no one, not even Mary, protested her presence. She regretted abandoning the more practical male attire but soon discovered the wounded often appreciated a woman’s presence, even one clad in simple dark dresses with white collars and cuffs.

  “No man ever had a better daughter,” Dr. Luke said hoarsely. “I am proud of you. I know God must be, too.” He released her and stumbled away.

  Lucy watched him go with brimming eyes. It was the first time she had seen him shed tears. Her work-worn fingers stole to her collar and the tiny lamp pin that adorned it. She needed no mirror to picture its glow, bright through constant touching. It warmed her fingers and her soul.

  Just like the service we give for Christ’s sake, her heart whispered. Tears gave way to peace, and that night Lucy slept deeply. It was well, for the rest and peace fortified her for what was yet to come.

  A few days later, she received a long-delayed message from the Hickory Hill blacksmith. Jeremiah Cunningham was officially listed as missing in action.

  A time of waiting began. A time of “hanging on to God’s coattails for dear life,” as Lucy wrote in her journal. A time of losing her life for the sake of others and finding it again; of sensing that Someone walked beside her. A time of predictions that the war must soon end. The Union army supposedly had grown to more than a million soldiers, five times the number of Confederate soldiers. Rumor claimed that a full 10 percent of those on both sides had deserted. Sickened of fighting, they simply laid down their arms and started their long journeys home.

  A bedraggled letter from Jinny Cunningham brought both hope and fresh concern. Jere and several comrades had been captured and sent to a prison camp. Some had been wounded, but Jere had miraculously escaped injury.

  Lucy saw her father’s worried look. Survival in the pest-ridden camps was as precarious as on the battlefield. “Jere has something in his favor,” Dr. Luke comforted. “Prison camps can always use those with medical knowledge.” He smiled. “At least you know where he is. Now you can write to him.”

  “Yes. Except Jinny’s letter is dated weeks ago.” Still, hope fluttered in Lucy’s heart like a moth dancing in the wind that night when she wrote her letter. It overflowed with joy for Jere being alive. Lucy forced back sleep and didn’t stop writing until her lamp dimmed, sputtered, and went out. Her last waking act was to smile and touch her own lamp, carefully pinned to her high nightgown collar.

  Jere Cunningham slowly pulled a worn blanket over a dead soldier’s face, one of a half-dozen lads in their teens who had died that week. Confederate gray or Union blue, the same red blood spilled on the battlefields and stained the nation.

  What felt like an eternity earlier, Jere and his friends had been captured in a surprise attack. Jere cocked an eyebrow. In the time it took to reach the Southern prison camp, at least he’d be free from the stench of powder and death.

  Unfortunately, the long, jolting ride also provided time for Jere to relive the past. It unrolled like a scroll in his mind. How sure of himself he had been that final morning at Hickory Manor. How cocky to think he could dictate to the Union army! Except for the grace of God and a Northern surgeon …

  Jere grinned. He and Ebony had headed straight for the closest Union encampment. In accordance with Jere’s well-laid plan, they were captured. “I came to enlist,” Jere said. “Take me to your commanding officer.”

  The patrol who had discovered him gaped. Their leader sneered. “Count on it.” He led the way, with Jere sandwiched between him and his men.

  Once in camp, Jere stepped from the saddle. A grizzled sergeant approached him after a rumbling exchange with the patrol. “You want to enlist, you hightail it to the other side of the war, sonny.” He cursed.

  “No, sir,” Jere said in a loud voice. “My conscience doesn’t permit me to bear arms for either side. I won’t take life, but I can help save it. I know basic medicine and can serve as a litter bearer or a surgeon’s assistant.”

  “Just what might your name be?” the sergeant demanded in icy tones.

  Jere stifled the perverse desire to retort, “It might be Tom Thumb or Jeremiah Marcus, Jerabone, Markabone, Napoleon Bonaparte Cunningham, but it ain’t.”

  He disciplined a grin. The doughty sergeant was no good-natured schoolmaster with whom to trifle. “Jeremiah Cunningham. Hickory Hill, Virginia.”

  “Well, Mr. Jeremiah Cunningham, what makes you think the Union army can be told what to do by a Johnny Reb?” the sergeant barked.

  “If I were a rebel I wouldn’t be here.”

  Mistrust sprang into the pale eyes. “You would if you were a spy.” He spat. “I’m betting that’s what you are.”

  “I am no spy.” Jere raised his voice until it rang throughout the encampment. “I demand to see your commanding officer. Now.”

  Pitting belligerence against belligerence followed by a silent prayer had paid off. A camp doctor clad in bloodstained clothing erupted from a nearby tent. He had obviously heard the altercation. “For the love of God,” he yelled, “if this man has medical skill, I don’t care if he’s Southern or purple! I’ll take full responsibility for him!” He gripped Jere’s shoulder and unceremoniously shoved him into the commanding officer’s tent.

  Gimlet eyes must have seen Jere’s sincerity. A half hour later, he was given an ironclad, special-consideration contract with the Union army.

  Heartaches and horrors followed, tempered by joy over saved lives. The thought of Lucy facing the same situations gripped Jere’s heart and gave him strength. Days and months limped into a blur of years. The loss of Ebony to a covetous officer hit Jere hard. He couldn’t speak of it, even to Lucy, whose letters he read until they fell apart at the creases. He memorized what his weary brain could retain, preparing for a time when no letters came.

  Now Jere bowed his head, wondering, as he had done the fateful day he was captured: Could even the Almighty salvage anything good from the carnage? He pondered the question until one day a startling thought came. Wasn’t his being in the prison camp proof God cared for the sick and dying? Cared enough to send Jeremiah, “appointed by Jehovah,” to give soul comfort, even when the lack of medicine and supplies hampered proper physical care?

  The conviction revitalized him. He began to share his faith with all who would listen. “God loves us so much He sent Jesus to die in our place,” he stated. Truth rang in every word. “If we accept God’s gift and invite Jesus into our hearts, our souls will never die.” Jere threw his head back and laughed. Laughed at the squalor, the privation, the misery. “Men, we will never have to fight again. We will live in heaven in peace. Forever.”

  Some responded to the sheer force of Jere’s belief. Conditions in the prison camp worsened, but a powerful new influence was at work. No walls could keep out the hope of the gospel of Christ when preached by a man who knew and loved his God. Was it for this Jere had ridden away on his faithful horse, Ebony? Could this be the good God had foreseen during all Jere’s terrible arguments with Father, the agonizing years of war, his separation from family and Lucy?

  Jere felt reborn. Like a child who discovers a bright new world outside his doorstep, his first thought was: I must go tell my father. He could not. Shackled by duty, he pushed himself even harder to relieve suffering. One day he collapsed, victim of the unspeakable conditions. He didn’t know or care that General Robert E. Lee formally surrendered to General Grant at Appomattox on April 9, 1865. Five days later, the world reeled from the news of President Lincoln’s assassination. Jere’s world reeled with fever, so high and debilitating, the grave-faced doctor who finally came shook hi
s head and moved on. Jere didn’t know how or when he was removed from the prison camp to an overflowing hospital that offered a shade better care than the camp.

  Deep inside his tortured body, a spirit made strong by trials refused to give up. Jere slowly began to rally. At last he opened his eyes and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, then dropped into a natural sleep. He awakened to find a man at his bedside. Jere recoiled, certain he had lost his sanity and was seeing ghosts.

  The man knelt by his bed and took Jere’s wasted hands in his. A voice Jere had never forgotten spoke in a tone he’d never before heard. “Jeremiah. Son. God knows you have good reason, but please, don’t turn away from me!”

  You? Here? It was too much to comprehend. Weakened by all he’d gone through, Jere bowed his head. The dam that had withstood coldness and injustice broke. A flood came, carrying away the debris of bitterness.

  Later, he learned his father’s story. When the invaders neared Hickory Manor, Laird took refuge in a large hickory tree. He watched his home being stripped of all but the family silver, previously buried. A former slave, now wearing Union blue, shouted, “We’ll show Old Man Cunningham. Burn the house!”

  “Hold it!” a grizzled sergeant had barked from below Laird’s perch. “There’s a surgeon’s assistant at my former company named Cunningham. He’s from around here. Good man. Saved a lot of Yankee lives. March on!”

  Jere gasped, but his father continued. The enemy rode away. In the dead of night, Laird dug up as much of the family silver as he could carry. He made his way to Boston. Isobel and Jinny had just learned of Jere’s whereabouts. “I spent weeks trying to obtain your release,” he brokenly said. “Now the war is over. God has forgiven this stubborn Scotsman. So have Isobel and Jinny. Can you?”

  “I forgave you the moment I realized God brought good from our conflict.”

  Laird smiled. “As soon as you get well, we’ll go home. If the government confiscates Hickory Manor, as it may, so be it. We’ll start over.” A twinkle brightened his gray eyes. “With a new redheaded member of the family.”

  The war was over, but nineteen-year-old Lucy’s battle raged on. Where was Jere? Her letters to the prison camp had come back unopened.

  After the Danielsons’ last patient was gone, they packed the buggy and left for home. Lucy dreaded going. Would they find desolation, ruin, a town ravaged by war like the ones they passed? Finally realizing that no more wounded and dying pleaded for her help, Lucy closed her eyes and asked for strength before they reached the village.

  “Wake up, Lucy. Look. Oh, Lucy, look!” Dr. Luke’s voice broke.

  She opened her eyes and stared toward Hickory Hill. It had been spared and lay peaceful in the sunlight. They reached the Danielson home. The fragrance of roses and beeswax greeted Lucy when she rushed into the entry hall. “Mammy?” she screamed. “Jackson Way?”

  “Honey-chile, is that you?” Roxy stepped into the hall and clasped Lucy to her white-aproned bosom. “The Lord be praised!” she shouted. “Your mammy was afeared she’d never see her chile again!”

  “I’m home, Mammy.” Blinding tears choked off Lucy’s words.

  She heard steps behind her, then a laughing voice said, “My name is Jeremiah Marcus, Jerabone, Markabone—oh, hang it all, Lucy, the fighting’s over, with Father as well as the country. When will you marry me?”

  She tore herself free from Mammy’s arms and whirled. The man she loved stood just inside the doorway. She searched his face. Laughter couldn’t hide how he had aged, but the love in his blue eyes shone steady and true.

  Lucy slowly removed the lamp pin from her collar. She pinned it on his ragged shirt. “Soon, Jere,” she whispered. “Very soon.”

  COLLEEN L. REECE was born and raised in a small western Washington logging town. She learned to read by kerosene lamplight and dreamed of someday writing a book. God has multiplied Colleen’s “someday” book into more than 150 titles that have sold six million copies. Colleen was twice voted Heartsong Presents’ Favorite Author and later inducted into Heartsong’s Hall of Fame. Several of her books have appeared on the CBA Bestseller list.

  Thank You, Jesus, for finding me and for helping me locate chapter two.

  This one is for the cheerleaders.

  You know who you are.

  And for Judy, companions for lunch and life.

  We made it!

  Finally, many, many thanks to my dear friend Janice Thompson, who gave more than I could ever ask of her in time and prayers to see this book into print.

  Chapter 1

  Friday, June 29, 1860

  Truly, Penney, I’ll just m–m–make a mistake, I know it.” Helen Morgan shook her head and took two steps back toward the safety of her little desk in the far corner of the newspaper office.

  “If I can set type, anyone can.” Penney Brice scurried back to the table holding the bits and pieces of letters that would form tomorrow’s edition of the Golden Gate Gazette. “With both of us working together, we’ll finish the changes to the front page in half the time.” She paused to shrug. “Of course, I’ll understand if you’re too busy.”

  Busy.

  Ever since she’d accepted employment as the sole bookkeeper at the Gazette, her life had been one series of busy moments after the other. Not that she looked upon her chosen profession as work, for nothing could be further from the truth.

  To Helen, the process of collecting the numbers and fitting them into orderly categories and columns was an occupation that bordered on a mission. Other than in the Lord, she’d never found any greater satisfaction in all her twenty-seven years than in her recent work at the Gazette. Finding immense comfort in the solitude her employment offered was an added bonus.

  Helen leaned against the door’s ornately carved wooden frame and watched Penney bend over a tray of letters. With swift movements, Penney picked out letters and set them in place, oblivious to the stifling heat. Before her eyes, Helen watched tomorrow’s headline take shape.

  The process did look quite simple. Any imbecile should be able to spell sufficiently to place the correct letters in a line to form words and sentences. Surely …

  Helen’s hopeful musings ground to an abrupt halt. The words of her late father, James Elliston Morgan, the honorable senator from the great state of Texas, rang through her head as her fingers grasped the door frame. “You’ll never manage it, Helen,” she heard the great orator declare. “Unfortunately, you’ve inherited your charming mother’s temperament and deficit of abilities.” Always, once the pronouncement was made, a proper pause ensued, followed by the postscript of “may the Lord rest her dear departed soul.”

  The last time she’d heard her father’s words, she chimed in with a response long held in check. “I daresay Mother has finally found her rest with the Lord, as she surely did not find it here in this life.”

  Of course she’d chosen the most inopportune time to assert her newfound outspokenness. One does not besmirch one’s father’s relationship with one’s mother publicly, least of all at his inaugural dinner. Surely the dear ladies and gentlemen of the Austin elite spoke in hushed tones about the senator’s rebellious daughter for many years afterward.

  For Helen the evening had produced a twofold result. First, she’d been shipped off for “finishing back East,” which meant spending the last year of her second decade with a pair of maiden great-aunts who adored her but cast as little care on her whereabouts as they did on their gray-striped tomcat. Second, she’d discovered that when the senator spoke, he stated the truth. As surely as if the Lord Himself had said the words, the edict regarding Helen’s competence had hit home and stuck.

  She’d not only inherited Mama’s temperament and abilities, she’d taken what was in her mother an endearing inability to finish the slightest detailed task correctly and perfected it, adding a general aberration for people and public places and a horrible tendency to stutter when nervous. Outside of adding and subtracting numbers, Helen Morgan was a total, unadulterated failure
at every new venture she attempted.

  So why in the world did she find herself gravitating toward the typesetting table and her dear friend Penney?

  She mustered a smile and listened with no small measure of concern as Penney began to instruct her on the fine art of typesetting. “Surely someone will be sorry that I’ve taken on this task.”

  “Don’t be silly, Helen.” Penney thrust a tray full of metal letters in her direction and smiled. “Anyone who can make sense of all those numbers will find this job terribly easy.”

  Half an hour later, Helen had all but given up on being any sort of serious help to dear Penney. To the contrary, it seemed as though Penney spent half the energy doing twice the work while Helen struggled to match each letter, each sentence, and each paragraph to the copy Mr. Madison left them. Still, she’d managed to do a decent job of it, a fact she noted with an equal measure of pleasure and surprise.

  “Honestly, Penney, I don’t know how you do this day after day.” Helen stretched to relieve the ache in her back. “I believe I’d go stark raving mad after the first week.”

  Ever cheerful, Penney smiled and tossed her curls. “Oh, it’s not as terrible as that. Besides, I’m just biding my time,” she said with a wink.

  Penney made no secret of the fact that, while she had taken a job at the Gazette as a typesetter, she had no intention of staying in the position indefinitely. Beneath that pretty and youthful exterior beat the heart of a reporter of serious news.

  Helen shuddered. Imagine interviewing unknown persons for a living, speaking to strangers as if they were familiar, or worse, chasing down a story from a reluctant perpetrator of crime. Why, sometimes it was all Helen could do to make small talk with one of Mr. Madison’s advertisement sponsors or, worse, one of her roommates’ gentleman friends. Imagine wanting to do these things on a regular basis.