Anita Mills Read Online Free Page A

thicket of wild plums and bittersweet.
    It could have been worse, she told herself. If Jesse’d been there, he would have put up a fight, and they’d probably have killed him and taken Old Dolly. While she’d lost the outbuildings, she still had her husband, her house, and a plow horse.

North Carolina: May 14, 1865

North Carolina: May 14, 1865
    T he rain poured over the brim of Spence’s hat, soaking through his coat and shirt, chilling his weary body all the way to the bone. Beneath him, the roan horse plodded slowly, its hooves sucking at the mire with every step. The muddy road was deeply rutted, still scarred by the passage of Sherman’s heavy artillery wagons two months ago. Now the ragged remnants of a beaten army were walking it home.
    As they’d passed the skeletal remains of charred chimneys and burnt farmhouses, seeing endless miles of fire-blackened fields, the relief most had felt at war’s end was gone, replaced by angry bitterness. Exhausted, footsore, and hungry, former butternut soldiers had themselves become foragers in their own land, fighting each other for food, horses, or enough money to get them to their own devastated farms and towns farther on.
    Straightening in the saddle, Spence shrugged aching shoulders and fought to stay awake. He’d hoped to be in Georgia by now, but he knew it was still a long way to the state line. Between bad roads and worse weather, he’d be damned lucky if he made it to Charlotte tonight. If he could get there, he had enough money in his boot to pay for a place to sleep. If he couldn’t, he’d have to stay awake. He’d already witnessed barefooted infantrymen pulling a careless cavalry officer from his saddle, taking his horse, his money, and most of his clothes. The fellow had been damned lucky to escape with his life.
    But as bad as things were, the war was over. Dispersing the wounded from field hospitals to other facilities had taken precious time from Spence, but with the last transfers done, he was finally going home to the wife and son he hadn’t seen in more than eighteen months.
    He had a lot of time to make up, and maybe things would be awkward at first, but he couldn’t wait to see Liddy. In his mind’s eye, he’d pictured his homecoming a thousand times. She’d be waiting for him on the columned porch, smiling through her tears, and they’d just hold each other. Josh would be hanging back until Spence held out some of the horehound candy he’d stashed in his coat pocket, then he’d be glad to see his daddy. Now he could spend the summer getting acquainted with his boy. He’d take him fishing, teach him to ride, play games with him on the wide, lush lawn at Jamison’s Landing.
    He’d finally be the husband Liddy wanted. He wouldn’t have to lie on a hard army cot, burning for her, anymore. Now he could give free rein to his memories of her whispered words, of the intoxicating scent of her skin, of the ecstasy of fulfilled desire. After four years of hell, he was going home to heaven on earth.
    But right now, the spectre of violence still hovered, fed by despair, humiliation, and a desire for revenge on the gloating, swaggering Yankees who’d plundered and burned the heart of the South. Just yesterday, a drunken bunch of bluecoats had blocked the road, telling butternuts they had to salute the Stars and Stripes before they could pass. Provoked, the former rebels had linked arms and sang “Dixie” at the top of their lungs, and forced their way through the jeering Yankees. When the ensuing fight was over, two Union soldiers lay dead in the road, and a dozen others were running for their lives.
    He kept trying to think of the good things, but his mind was wandering, scattering his thoughts like buckshot. He was so tired, but he couldn’t stop. At Charlotte, he’d write Liddy, letting her know he was on his way home, then he’d sleep as long as he could.
    As unsettled as everything had been in those last weeks before Johnston surrendered