Fairhaven
June 15, 1865
Amalie
She’d been sweeping and dusting and polishing all morning—and Amalie Winslow was just getting started. There were still beds to be made, and rugs to be beaten and sheets to be pulled from the furniture in the best rooms, especially the parlor and the dining room.
The dining room.
Lord have mercy. She hadn’t given a single thought to food, and Bridger and his Yankee bride were bound to be hungry when they arrived, and the little girl, too.
They’d be worn out after weeks spent rattling along rutted roads in that most unsuitable conveyance. A covered wagon. Not a trim little surrey, a gracious vehicle that would be of some use in the future.
Amalie had her suspicions. Although Bridger had reassured her repeatedly about Caroline’s kindness and her intelligence, her new sister-in-law might be one of those domineering sorts, forever speaking her mind and making demands. Women were like that in the North, she’d heard, strident, marching in the streets, carrying signs and banners. They lacked social graces and wore drab, ugly clothing and some of them even smoked and drank whiskey. Probably played cards, too.
And now that Mr. Lincoln’s army had laid waste to the South, leaving Georgia in ruins—other than the city of Savannah itself—they’d be even more insufferable than before, looking down their ax-blade noses with their beady little eyes at everything and everybody who tried to live in a civilized fashion, clucking their wicked tongues.
Granted, Caroline had sent her a lovely letter—but Amalie had to ask herself how genuine it was...
The front door, twice kicked in by rude Yankees, crashed open just then, slamming hard against the inside wall and probably denting the mahogany wainscoting in the process.
Amalie tried to remember where she’d put the shotgun. She liked to keep it close at hand, and that was a good thing, too, because Fairhaven would be nothing but charred beams and broken marble if she hadn’t. But now that General Sherman’s army wasn’t prowling the countryside, she hadn’t been as vigilant.
She would simply have to make do with the broom.
“Miz Amalie! Miz Amalie, you to home?”
Amalie sighed. Released her hold on the handle of the broom.
The voice belonged to Bella and Joseph’s seven-year-old spitfire, Molly Sue.
“Miz Ammmmmmmmalie!”
Amalie reached the grand foyer, saw the child standing barefoot and big-eyed under the chandelier that had once graced some European palace.
“Molly Sue Ryan,” Amalie scolded. “Why are you carrying on so? And you’d better hope you haven’t scratched the wainscoting—”
“Miz Amalie,” the little girl whispered, and every tiny braid on her tiny head looked about to take off in a different direction. “They’s a Yankee coming, sure as I’m borned! He’s dressed all in blue and he’s ridin’ a horse I ain’t seen the like of since Mr. Bridger took Orion away!”
In her mind’s eye, Amalie saw the shotgun. She’d left it in Papa’s study.
“Molly Sue,” she said, already heading for the tall double doors opposite the best parlor, “you go on and tell your daddy what you just told me, fast as you can. And don’t you let this Yankee see you, either!”
Molly Sue nodded, setting her braids to bobbing again.
“Go!” Amalie ordered, shoving open the doors to the study. “Use the back way and remember what I said—you’ve got to stay out of sight. No matter what.”
Molly Sue’s lower lip wobbled, but she nodded again and ran toward the back of the house, her small feet slap-slapping the floor as she went.
Amalie lifted the shotgun down from the rack behind Papa’s desk, cocked it, saw that it was loaded.
Good.
She could hear the horse now, clomping along the cobblestones out front.
She straightened her spine, marched back into the foyer and planted herself squarely on the threshold, shotgun at the ready and fighting mad.
She’d had all the harassment she was going to put up with from those devils in blue, and that, by God, was that.
He sat tall in the saddle, this Yankee, and his uniform was so new, it probably hadn’t had time to start smelling of sweat. Brass buttons gleamed like baby suns on the front of his tunic, and his black brimmed hat was spotless, banded with gold braid. His legs were long and muscular, and his boots shone like onyx.
He took her in, from head to foot, with a sweep of his eyes. Registered the shotgun, too, unless he was blind, which didn’t seem likely.
Bold as could be, the Northerner rode right up to the hitching post, dismounted and tethered the horse loosely, so it could drink from the metal trough while he paid his call, and never mind that he hadn’t been invited.
He walked over, all easy like, and there was something vaguely familiar in the way he moved, but Amalie didn’t think about it.
She aimed the shotgun. “You can stop right there, Yankee,” she said. “One more move, and I’ll send you off to your Maker in pieces.”
The Yankee paused at the base of the three steps leading onto the verandah, but he didn’t look one bit scared.
“Mind if I take off my hat?”
That voice. She’d heard it before, but where?
“Go ahead,” Amalie said, gun still sighted on his midsection. “Just don’t get the impression I’m going to invite you in, because I am not.”
He reached up, removed his hat, and Amalie nearly swooned when she saw his glossy black hair, his indigo eyes and that white flash of a smile.
“Well, Snippet,” said Rogan McBride, “I heard you were handy with a shotgun.”
* * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Flight Girls by Noelle Salazar.
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt gratitude goes out to: My heartfelt gratitude goes out to:
Grady “Skip” Lael, my late father, and Hazel Bleecker Lael, my mother. Dad taught me dogged persistence, and Mom gave me my great love of reading.
My siblings, Jerry Lael, Sally Lael Lang and Pamela Lael, who have been pillars of strength.
Irene Goodman, my agent of thirty-five years, and Alex Kamaroff, her husband and business partner. Irene and Alex have believed in me, and in this project, from its earliest conception.
My daughter, Wendy Miller, who inspires me just by existing, and her partner, Jeremy Hargis, one of the finest men I know. I love you both.
Jennifer Readman Gebhardt, my niece/assistant, who has traveled with me on many occasions, driven rental cars, checked baggage, booked hotel rooms, and run errands in unfamiliar cities.
Kathy Sagan, my editor at Mira, who guided me wisely and patiently through the process of drafting this story.
Paula Eykelhof, my long-time editor at HQN, and a very dear friend. Special thanks, Paula, for working your magic, and for our many long conversations about the Civil War and our various and much beloved pets.
Debbie Macomber, world-class writer and truly amazing plotting partner. Thank you for the adventures we’ve shared, the times we’ve laughed and the times we’ve cried.
Sandra Penesse and Janet Wahl, my “Gettysburg” friends, who have made me feel so welcome on every visit, shared their knowledge, and spoiled me shamelessly. I cherish both of you.
Cynthia Miller Taylor, who read my manuscript and offered invaluable reassurances.
My deepest appreciation to the experts:
Gary Roche, Licensed Battlefield Guide, Gettysburg National Military Park. Gary’s knowledge of the American Civil War in general, and the Battle of Gettysburg in particular, is truly mind-boggling. His presentation on his ancestor, Patrick DeLacy, of the 143rd PA Volunteers Regiment, who was awarded the Medal of Honor, is an education in itself.
Gary was tireless in his efforts to show me the sights and explain what happened, where, and when. His lovely
wife, Marsha, brought warm smiles and cool bottles of water just when we needed them most.
Wayne E. Motts, Licensed Battlefield Guide (Gettysburg), shared his tremendous expertise, and gave our little group an extensive tour of the American Civil War Museum in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, as well as arranging a visit to the Spangler Farm, near Gettysburg.
Debra Novotny, also a Licensed Battlefield Guide at Gettysburg National Military Park, showed us around the National Military Cemetery and the Evergreen Cemetery, for civilians, and shared many fascinating stories. My favorite involved a loyal dog, a brave soldier in his own right.
Colonel John Fitzpatrick, Esq., Licensed Battlefield Guide, Gettysburg National Military Park, filled in a rainy day with a comprehensive talk on Lincoln and the legendary Irish Brigade.
Finally, my thanks to Nancie W. Gudmestad, who generously gave us a detailed tour of the Shriver House Museum, in Gettysburg.
Many, many others have contributed to my research; it would be impossible to include all of you.
Any errors to be found in THE YANKEE WIDOW are entirely my own.
If you enjoyed this story, you won’t want to miss this stunning debut novel inspired by real female pilots during World War II, about friendship and its power to make us soar...
The Flight Girls
Audrey Coltrane has always wanted to fly. It’s why she implored her father to teach her at the little airfield back home in Texas. It’s why she signed up to train military pilots in Hawaii when the war in Europe began. And it’s why she insists she is not interested in any dream-derailing romantic involvements, even with the disarming Lieutenant James Hart, who fast becomes a friend as dear as the women she flies with. Then one fateful day, she gets caught in the air over Pearl Harbor just as the bombs begin to fall, and suddenly, nowhere feels safe.
Following the attack, Audrey struggles to reconcile her devastating losses—colleagues, friends and the piece of her heart she left in the air. She seizes the opportunity to join the Women Airforce Service Pilots, hoping to make everything she’s lost count for something.
The fast friendships she forms with her fellow WASP women reignites a spark of hope in the face of a war that moves closer to home every day. When James goes missing in action, those bonds help her summon the courage to cross the front lines and give her the faith that they will return stateside—together.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at The Flight Girls, available now for preorder, and coming soon to bookstores everywhere...
The Flight Girls
by Noelle Salazar
My father once said, when my mother was pregnant with me, it felt like I was fluttering inside. “Like a tiny bird, trapped in its egg, straining to be free.” And as soon as I could walk I was running, arms outstretched like little wings.
He always said I was more bird than girl, flitting about, leaping without looking, never afraid of the fall.
Trusting my wings would carry me...
PART ONE
OCTOBER 1941
One
Oahu
The surf swirled and frothed around my ankles as the sweet Hawaiian trade winds whispered through palm trees, carrying the scent of coconut oil across the sand to where I stood staring at the skyline.
“Audrey!”
I glanced over my shoulder to the three women sitting on a large blanket whisked from someone’s bed this morning as we hurried out the door, hoping to arrive at Sunset Beach early enough to find a parking spot. The impending winter waves were bringing more and more surfers out, crowding my favorite beach and making it impossible to have a moment of solitude. As we’d feared, the lot was near capacity with army jeeps, woodie station wagons, and Ford Coupes teeming with boards in every color and other assorted beach gear.
“Yes?” I shouted back.
Ruby, Catherine and Jean lay in different levels of repose, their skin gleaming in the late morning sun.
“You planning on standing there all day?” Ruby asked, adjusting the top of the new fire-engine red two-piece bathing suit Catherine had accused her of purchasing a size too small, the top straining to cover her bosom.
“Maybe.”
“Well then move this way a tick. I could use a little shade.”
“Her wisp of a shadow ain’t gonna help you much,” Jean said, pulling off a wide-brim straw hat and fanning her face while fluffing the thick blond curls matted to her scalp with her other hand.
Catherine, resplendent in a white halter-style suit with a ruffle at the hem, flipped from her front to her back and sat up. “I’ve an entire lake between my breasts,” she said, making two men strolling by take pause. She bestowed a coquettish grin on them and ran a manicured hand up and down one long leg. The kitten, always grooming, fussing, touching.
As I turned back to the water, I paused, my gaze hesitating on a man lying on his side thirty yards away. He looked up from his book and our eyes met.
Lieutenant Hart.
I sucked in a breath and turned away. For reasons I couldn’t ascertain, the commanding officer of airmen recruits at Wheeler Army Airfield, and my boss’s superior, unsettled me. Not in a fearful way. No, it was something else. Something quieter. Compelling. A fluttering that had nestled low in my belly the first morning we’d met on the tarmac four months ago and wouldn’t settle. Try as I might, thoughts of him permeated my mind even when I wasn’t training new pilots with him right under my nose. That he was often where we were on our days off didn’t help.
The roar of the waves drowned out the sound of my heartbeat as they swelled, crashed and lapped onto the shore around me, calming my nerves and bringing me back to my reason for standing there.
Per the calendar tacked to the wall outside the break room of the training hangar, I’d seen that a couple planes were scheduled to be parked at Haleiwa airstrip fifteen minutes south of where we were and, knowing their route would take them up through the middle of the island before looping around and down, I wanted a front row seat as they flew past.
“What time is it?” I called over my shoulder.
“Eleven thirty-six,” Jean said. “Maybe they ain’t coming after all.”
I peered north, listening for the sound of an incoming motor, but nothing could be heard over the chatter of beachgoers, the thud of a ball being hit in a game of volleyball nearby, and Jimmy Dorsey’s “Green Eyes” playing on the radio of a car.
I sighed and raised a hand to shield my eyes from the sun, scanning the horizon to the north. Something bumped my leg and I glanced down at a vacant white-and-blue surfboard.
“Sorry about that, cutie,” a male voice said, pulling the board out of the water with ease and tucking it under his arm.
“It’s fine,” I murmured, waving my hand as though shooing a fly.
“What’s so interesting out there that’s got a sweet thing like you so fascinated?” he asked, moving in, his arm brushing mine.
I straightened all of my five feet six inches, crossed my arms over my chest, and took a step away before looking up at Mr. All American. His blond hair still had the tracks from the comb he’d pushed through it, and his well-built chest puffed with self-importance. His audacity to both crowd and touch me without approval attested he was everything I couldn’t stand about the male species. Most of them, anyway.
My eyes flicked to the lieutenant and saw he was on his feet, the book in his hand forgotten as he peered at the Adonis beside me.
I looked back up at the blonde and he winked and grinned. The sun glinted off his teeth as he unabashedly took in everything from my wet hair to my modest navy one-piece. I blanched and took another step back.
“You bothering my friend, Eddie?”
Ruby stood behind us, hands on her hips, the sun lighting up her auburn hair like fire.
“Well, Miss Ruby Carmichael.” He turned his gleaming smile on my roommate. “How
are you this fine afternoon? You still spending time with that man Travis?”
Ruby giggled and I sighed. She had the worst taste in men. They were always oversized in ego and undersized in brain.
“Oh, that was ages ago,” she said. “I can’t believe you even remember.”
“How can I forget when the sweetest gal I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting is seeing someone who isn’t me?” he asked, his eyes glued to her chest. “But no more, you say?”
“No more,” she said in a breathy voice.
“Well then, can I interest you in a walk on the beach?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Had I been interested, I’d have been offended at how I’d been not only ignored, but completely forgotten. As it was, I was relieved.
I looked over at the lieutenant who held my gaze for a moment before giving me a small smile and shaking his head. He tossed his book onto his towel, waded into the water and dove out of sight. He surfaced several feet away and began swimming, his strong, measured strokes pushing him out to sea.
“Was Eddie giving you a hard time?”
I jumped as Jean materialized beside me. She stared down the beach, narrowing her brown eyes behind the peach-framed sunglasses that sat perched on the end of her upturned nose.
“I think he was going to try, but then he got distracted,” I said.
Jean snorted.
“That Eddie is doll dizzy,” came another voice. I turned to see Jean’s friend Claire, a nurse we’d met our second day on the island, when Ruby thought she’d broken her wrist. Her eyes followed Ruby and Eddie, her pale lips pursed in disapproval, her frumpy pink sundress damp with perspiration.
“Ruby can handle him,” Jean said. “She goes through men like Catherine does false lashes. She dumped poor Travis yesterday after only seeing him for two weeks.”
“If that,” I said.
“Sounds like a match made in heaven then,” Claire said.
“Well,” Jean said, nudging me with her elbow, “you may have lost out on Eddie, but you sure have our dear lieutenant’s attention. He looked ready to defend your honor.”
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