Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) (23 page)

Martin chuckled, a deep, warm sound, and kissed her nose. “Don’t tempt me, you wicked little slip.”

They did stay in bed until twilight fell and their stomachs protested. Brian had come, done the evening chores and discreetly gone home.

Chelle slipped into her shift, lit the stove and put the ham and scalloped potatoes Jessie had left for them in the oven to heat, while Martin, wearing only a pair of work trousers, kindled a peat fire in the old fireplace and lit the lamps.

They ate by the hearth, sharing kisses in between bites. Afterward, Martin took down his fiddle. Chelle settled beside him on the sofa. As he played, she heard lovers’ voices, children’s laughter, all the happiness that the years would hold.

“That’s us, isn’t it, Martin?”

He put down his bow, looked into her eyes. His smile told her he’d heard all the same things. A lifetime of love. “Aye, Chelle, that’s us.”

Epilogue

1865

Chelle drew the curtains against the cold, rainy evening and turned back to the crib where her son slept, now that he’d outgrown the old Rainnie cradle. Traces of tears glistened on his soft baby cheeks in the lamplight. He hadn’t wanted to be put down before Martin got home from his weekly music session at the pub. At eighteen months, Trey James Rainnie already had a definite mind of his own. With Leah in constant mischief and another little one due in three months’ time, Chelle’s days were full, the more so as she helped Aunt Caroline as a midwife as often as ever.

She tucked the quilt more closely around her son and ran a hand over his fine curls. With his dark hair and near-black eyes, he was so like her mother and her twin. As it always did, the thought brought mingled joy and sadness.

Trey had been badly wounded at Antietam in the autumn of ‘62. Chelle’s dreams of him and Rory had proven eerily true. She’d never recall those battlefield visions without a shiver. She’d wanted to name her son James after Martin’s father, but he’d insisted on calling the boy after her brother. “For luck. They’ll meet one day.”

Trey’s last letter had been written over a year ago, in the summer of ‘64. He’d sounded weary and Chelle’s instinct told her, very troubled, in spite of his assertion that he was well. And then… silence. Even with mail disrupted by the chaos of the war’s ending, she’d expected to hear from him by now if he were all right. Had Trey survived the war, only to lose his life on the dangerous journey west? Slowly, inevitably, she’d begun to think of her brother in the past tense, along with her mother and Rory, part of another place and time.

Chelle heard the front door open and close, shook off her mood, and hurried downstairs to meet Martin. He put away his fiddle and shrugged out of his oilskin coat, smiling in spite of sopping hair and the cold water that had run down his back.

“You’re soaked. Who was at the Crow tonight?”

“It’s a plain sort of night, that’s for sure. There were ten of us there, in spite of the weather. Jason came, and Malcolm Blake was back. He’s over his bronchitis and able to sing again.” Martin gathered Chelle close with one arm and laid his other hand over her swelling belly. “Are the little ones asleep?”

“Yes, finally.” Chelle looked up into Martin’s sea-colored eyes, saw a teasing glint there. “You look like the cat that stole the cream.”

Martin grinned and held her tighter, the scent of him warm and familiar. Behind them, the stove sent waves of grateful heat through the room.

Chelle stood on tiptoe for a kiss, relished the taste and feel of the man she loved more with each passing day. Then she stepped away. “Out with it. I can tell you’re hiding something.”

“Clever lass.” Grinning, Martin pulled an envelope from his pocket.

Chelle caught a glimpse of the American postmark before he held it up out of reach. “That’s from Trey!”

“What’ll you give me for it?”

Without bothering to answer, she started tickling him. Martin couldn’t fend her off and keep the letter out of reach at the same time. She snatched it, hurried to the table and turned up the lamp.

Colorado Territory.
So Trey had survived the war’s end and made the journey west safely. Chelle dropped into a chair, her fingers so clumsy with anticipation she could hardly tear the envelope open.

Dear Chelle,

I’m sitting here by my fire, listening to a coyote calling down by the river about a mile away. It’s a fine, still summer evening; one of those nights when I can’t seem to believe that the hellish noise I lived with for the last four years was real.

I’m now the proud possessor of a hundred and eighty acres of Colorado grassland, a hundred head of cattle and half a barn. I still feel out of place here. Sometimes when I wake in the morning, I think for a few seconds that I’m at home, that the war was only a vivid nightmare. At other times, it seems as if this place is the dream and the war is reality, and I’m still in the middle of it. Still, I think with time I’ll learn to love this land.

I’ve got my hands full with work. I have five years to prove up on my claim, and I might need every day of it, but if I’m going to have a place of my own, this is my chance. I’m taking each day as it comes and trying not to look back.

Happy tears blurred Chelle’s vision. Trey had survived. He was safe, or at least he had been when he wrote, and if fate were kind she’d see him again.

She felt Martin’s hands on her shoulders as he leaned over her. “Trey’s all right, then?”

“Yes, he’s all right. He’s found a place to settle.” Chelle laid a hand over one of Martin’s as she read on. Trey didn’t offer any explanation or apology as to why he hadn’t written in so long, but he said enough for her to read between the lines. He hadn’t written because he couldn’t bear to until now.

There’s blood on my hands, Chelle. I need to feel earth on them again. Time will tell if any good will come out of the last four years. I don’t know anymore.

“He’s physically well I think, but he’s troubled, and he’s alone.”

Martin’s lips brushed Chelle’s hair. “He’s been through hell, but he comes of strong, stubborn stock. He’ll come around. You’ll see.”

Chelle folded the letter, stood and leaned into Martin again. With his arms warm and strong around her, she felt hope rising like a spring in March. Like the baby growing inside her. She’d found out where she belonged, and Trey would, too.

You’ll have your place, Trey. I know you well enough to know that. And when the time is right, you’ll have so much more. Just like I do.

ABOUT JENNIE MARSLAND

Jennie Marsland lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia, on Canada’s beautiful East Coast. She has had a lifelong love affair with words and history, starting with her family’s stories of life in Nova Scotia in earlier times. Jennie teaches English, science and history at a local private school, and when she isn’t writing, spends her free time cooking, gardening, playing guitar, and catering to the whims of her two very spoiled Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retrievers.

Find Jennie Online:

Website - http://www.jenniemarsland.com

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/Jennie-Marsland-Author-268022986552318

Twitter - http://twitter.com/jenniemarsland

YouTube - https://www.youtube.com/user/jenniemarsland

G+ - http://plus.google.com/117455026655986401318/about

Tirgearr Publishing - http://www.tirgearrpublishing.com/authors/Marsland_Jennie