Love by Dawn Read online

  LOVE BY DAWN

  Thérèse A. Kraemer

  Copyright Therese A. Kramer 2013

  Published by Spangaloo at Smashwords

  Spangaloo Edition

  http://spangaloo.com

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  Editor: Murray Coleman (http://words.spangaloo.com)

  Cover Design: Spangaloo

  http://words.spangaloo.com

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Epilogue

  Bio

  ONE

  “Cassandra!”

  The urgent command shocked the dead of the night. The sound of horse hooves beat upon the sleeping earth like a tom-tom, waking all creatures and a young Cassandra Walsh. But she only half listened, as she struggled with her semi-conscience.

  “Casey!” This time there was no mistaking the truth. She was being summoned and she came awake with a jolt. At first, she thought perhaps she was dreaming; the mind can work strangely when suspended in sleep. Struggling with real and imagined images, she shook her head trying to calm the wild beating of her heart. Dream or not, something was wrong. Born with an uncanny sixth sense of knowing when anything bad was going to happen, spasms of alarm erupted within her and she swallowed the terror that rose in her throat.

  She heard it again. “Casey!” The familiar voice was urgent; a warning bell rang in her brain. Now fully awake, her mind instantly recognized her father’s voice that ripped the night, sending a chill up her spine. He was not at home, but she had heard him as clear as if he were in the room. Quickly, she slipped on a cotton robe. With shaking hands, she clutched it together and ran from her room, through the small cabin to the front door.

  For a moment, she hesitated before throwing open the weather-beaten barrier. The damp night air chilled her immediately as she peered into the darkness. The wind picked up the moment she stepped onto the rickety porch; an owl hooted, making her jump. Her long hair whipped around her face and she shivered more from her uneasy feeling than the night air. Frustrated because she couldn’t see past the large pine trees, she went inside and returned to her room feeling her heart tighten as if a web was being woven snugly around it. Trying to sleep was useless; her mind was filled with anxiety, half in anticipation and half in dread.

  A coyote howled for its mate in the distance made her feel more isolated.

  Many long minutes passed. Casey paced the floor until she heard a horse’s whinny outside the cabin. Her head snapped up and her heart raced as she listened to the footsteps before her bedroom door flew opened. She stood frozen in time.

  “Casey!”

  Her father nearly fell into her room. His was panting and gasping, clutching his chest, as he took in deep breaths of air. Despite her fears, she felt a moment of relief and awful joy. “Father?” she gasped, going quickly to his side. “What happened? What’s wrong? Where’s Hunter?”

  Her mind was in turmoil; part of her dreaded his answer. Part of her suspected she should be frightened to hear it but she needed to. Her father was covered with mud and acting like the devil himself was chasing him. Her hands trembled as she led her father to the bed. Her relief was short-lived and she wanted her questions answered, but he needed tending. His breathing was uneven and labored, telling her he’d been riding long and hard. She feared for her brother also. Where was he?

  “Get dressed child,” her father ordered with a gasp of breath. “I’ve no time to explain.”

  “But…”

  “Now!” The command was blunt and to the point, but his voice lacked strength.

  Casey wanted to question him again, but she bit back tears of frustration; she had to obey him and believe that it must be important for them to leave in such a hurry. She would find out later and prayed that her brother was all right. Quickly, she dressed, remembering the last time she and Hunter fled into the night, they were running from Union soldiers. She was sure this was the case again.

  Once more, she donned her brother’s clothes, something she took to doing a long time ago. With no mother to scold her into wearing dresses and since she did most of the chores, she found boys clothes more comfortable. Anyway, who saw her deep in the woods? She never recalled living anywhere except in the wilderness, even when her mother was alive.

  “Oh, mama,” she sobbed, “I wish you were here. Maybe papa wouldn’t be on the run all the time.” She shrugged to herself. The truth was, even her mother couldn’t change him; he was always doing something that got him into trouble. She was sure it was this kind of life that killed her mother at an early age. Inhaling deeply, she wondered if her mother could have kept her brother from following in her father’s footsteps. She frowned and swore unladylike under her breathe. Probably not.

  “Hurry up, girl!” she heard him bellow from outside. She shoved her long golden hair under her hat, grabbed her rifle, then ran. Her father was waiting for her and had her horse, Sadie, saddled.

  Once again, she asked as she mounted Sadie. “Where’s Hunter?”

  “No time to explain,” he grumbled. His eyes warning her that this was no moment for stubbornness.

  Casey swung her mount around and they fled into the darkness, riding hard all night. Although she was an excellent rider and could keep up with any man, her backside was quite sore. Her spine ached and her legs were beginning to chafe. It had been a while since she spent time in the saddle and her aches were reminding her of that fact. By morning she was thirsty, sore and chilled to the bone from the drizzle that had started shortly before dawn. The country was remote and calm, a far cry from her own emotions; her insides were in a whirlwind. They had to stop soon, for the horses couldn’t continue at that pace. Finally, her father stopped at a stream where they, their mounts drank and rested.

  Marcus believed they were safe now, but the pain in his left arm was getting worse. How could he tell his daughter that they had been ambushed? That her brother was probably captured or maybe dead? He had barely escaped himself. After he had hightailed away, he was sorry for dragging the boy into his dealings. He prayed he’d not find his son’s dead body. He had seen the boy fall from his horse; never would he forgive himself. Never! His self-chastising was a little late but he had to try and save Hunter.

  It was time to explain to his daughter the facts. He felt the weight of her gaze on him, as he turned to see confusion and fear written all over her lovely face. There was such prettiness about her, innocence, but his daughter was by no means a novice of life. For h
er it had been a hard one and it was entirely his fault. He swallowed his sad thoughts. It was too late for regrets.

  “All right,” Casey said. She sat on her haunches after taking her fill of water. “Let’s hear it, pop.”

  Marcus sat wearily on the damp ground knowing in his aching heart that his feisty daughter wasn’t going to like it one bit. He couldn’t fault her and once again he blamed himself that Hunter was in danger, maybe dead. If only his wife, Maisie was still alive, but wishing didn’t make things right. He sighed, wiping his beaded brow with a damp bandanna; he was getting too old for this. Once more he had promised himself and his dead wife that this was going to be the last time. Marcus realized too late that he should have left Hunter home, but the boy was a man and had insisted on coming along. He dreaded telling his daughter the truth. Damnation, he was tired and not feeling very well. Unconsciously, he rubbed his sore arm and let out a big belch.

  “Damn digestion!”

  He saw Casey’s beautiful face. It undulated before him and he blinked seeing his Maisie sitting by his side. How beautiful she was. How he missed touching the long blonde hair that had a texture like woven silk. Her soft topaz eyes held so much love for him; she could see no wrong with them. Oh, how he loved her.

  “Maisie,” he gasped and tried to fill his lungs with the air they begged for.

  “Papa?” A flicker of apprehension coursed through Casey, assuming that she wasn’t about to like what he was going to tell her. She watched her father curiously; he didn’t look good. His skin had a funny hue to it and he was sweating profusely. His clear blue eyes were red and watery and void of emotion, something she’d never seen before. She wondered how he had aged so much, for he looked much older than forty-five. His hair was the color of pewter and thin, like wisps of clouds. “Papa.” She was beside him now. He seemed to be staring into space. “Papa?” she bit her lower lip not understanding what was happening. Why was he calling her by her mother’s name? She put her arm quickly around him and his head fell onto her shoulder. “Oh, Papa. What’s happening with you? What happened to Hunter?”

  “Hunter,” her brother’s name was but a whisper on his dry lips. He fell over taking her with him. Terrified, she cried and struggled to right them both. “Papa? Please tell me.”

  The moon cast an eerie glow making her father’s irises gleam like glassy rock full of remorse and remoteness. She saw that he had trouble breathing and she began to grasp the fact that he might be suffering a heart attack!

  “I deserve to die, but not my son,” he rasped above a whisper.

  “Please, papa,” she tugged at his shirt, uncaring how rough she was. His gaze was icy and unresponsive and she shook him, screaming at him to answer her. His mouth took on an unpleasant twist and she began to sob frantically. She hardly heard the gurgle in his throat but she did hear him whisper Hunter’s name again. She stopped herself from crying and put her ear to his mouth.

  “Hunter,” he rasped, “was caught by the abolitionist.” That was all he said.

  Casey sat dazed for a long time before she let out a bloodcurdling scream in the unfamiliar surroundings, then she reached out and clutched his hand before collapsing onto her father’s dead body. She wept like she had when her mother died.

  Much later, when her tears were gone and her throat was raw, she lifted her dazed body from her father’s and walked over to his horse to retrieve a tin cup from his saddlebag. It took hours for her to dig a shallow grave. Her hands bled from torn fingernails while her shoulders and back ached from fatigue and labor. She ignored the pain and numbness in her legs from kneeling on the hard ground, as she mustered her last strength and pulled the heavy body into the grave. She covered him with dirt and rocks to protect him from wild animals. Then and only then, she fell into an exhausted sleep. Somewhere between the dimension of sleep and wakefulness, she heard the chirping of a bird. In her sleepy mind she was back home and she stretched feeling rested but sore as hell. The pain in her body brought her fully awake only to recall her horror once again. Her eyelids slowly opened only to be greeted by a gray dawn. A fitting companion for her state of mind.

  Tears formed anew in her eyes. She moaned and dragged herself to the lake to splash cold water on her sleep-crusted eyes. That refreshed her somewhat. She studied the sore blisters on her hands and recalled the pain of yesterday’s events all over again. But there would be no crying now. Some bitterness towards her father erupted when she recalled the past week before this nightmare. How long had her father been selling slaves? She was ashamed and loved him in one heartbeat. The memory of how she had begged her father and brother not to go was still vivid in her mind. Why did Hunter insist on joining this time? He was not yet seventeen and all ready in trouble, if not dead. And she, only eighteen, was now left alone to fend for herself, but she could manage. Hadn’t she had been doing it all every time her father went away for long periods? Even taking care of her younger brother wasn’t a hardship.

  Casey sighed, thinking of Hunter, knowing she had to find out if he was still alive. Her father said he was captured, not killed, so there was hope. But could she find him before something dreadful happened to him? Abolitionists did not take pity on the slave dealers they captured. She tried to think of better times, when her mother was alive, when she and her brother played near the woods. Although, times had always been hard and though they were very poor, she never complained. Her mother had been very beautiful but as time went on, the hardship took its toll; she grayed prematurely and her thin body didn’t stand as straight as it had when she was younger.

  Her mother was an educated woman who had lived in Boston. Her family was well-to-do. Her father met her when he went to visit a cousin and it was love at first sight. Maisie’s family hadn’t been happy, especially when her father brought her south to live in the wilderness. His ambition was to farm. At first, the land was prosperous until a drought destroyed all their dreams and it went from bad to worse. He did anything he could to keep his family from starving. Then the bickering started and her mother became ill, but up to her last days, she tutored her children from the books she had brought with her from home. Now it was all gone. Casey almost laughed at that notion. She really didn’t lose anything of value except her brother.

  No, she scolded herself, he has to be alive.

  TWO

  Wild Creek Bend, Georgia. April 1st, 1865

  Hunter Walsh was the main topic of conversation between Blake January and Davis Pits. The man sat ridged in his chair, trying again to reason with Blake. “I’m sorry son,” Davis Pits said for the third time, “we cannot let him go.” Blake sat in the deserted fort and raked his hand through his thick hair, totally frustrated. He knew the kid did wrong, but he was young and he didn’t feel good about all of this. But Davis Pits, an abolitionist, was right; selling slaves was morally wrong. Men died for that cause, hadn’t they? And who better than he should know this.

  He had joined the Union Army and fought with the North, against his own cousin and his own family beliefs. His father owned slaves but he always treated them fairly. But be that as it may, Blake had his own ideas about slavery.

  Davis Pits snorted, “I can’t let one dirty slave seller go even if he’s just a kid. I know I’m being harsh by making an example of him, but… hell!” he pounded the desk with his fists. “This damn war is almost over and all our countrymen dead and those bastards are still selling slaves. Treating human beings as if they were trash! Abolitionists have been widely denounced and abused for years. Mobs attack us in the North and Southerners burn antislavery pamphlets.”

  He let out a frustrated sigh. “We’re doing the right thing and still this travesty continues. Uncle Tom’s Cabin, by Harriet Stow had become one effective piece of propaganda but here, in this backward town people are still against our freeing slaves. Knowing that the war is lost to them, makes ignorant men very hostile towards us.”

  Blake’s shoulders sagged heavily with frustration but he had to admire Davis Pits
for what he stood for. Although, he was not a young man anymore, he didn’t show his age. Built solid, he kept himself in good shape. Tall in stature, with all-white hair, his face was free from wrinkles and he could pass for a forty-year-old man.

  He would never have become involved with Pits if it weren’t for a favor his father owed the other man. His mind returned to his past. After drifting, since he was sixteen, he had fought in the war a short time. While Blake was off fighting in the Civil War for his beliefs his father had made a pledge with Pits and now he had to honor the promise. A leg wound relieved him of his duty and when he returned home, he found his father was paralyzed on his left side. After he recovered from his injury, his old man begged him to find Pits and help him free slaves, since his father could no longer work with his friend. Blake had first balked at the idea, but fighting with his father only upset the man more, causing his right side of his body to convulse.

  After his father had a stroke, Blake had reluctantly come to an agreement with the old man only to pacify him. Because his earlier refusal to become a doctor nearly broke his father’s heart, it made him feel as if he were responsible for the stroke. Never would he have followed in his father’s footsteps, no matter how the old man wished it so.

  Blake carried a lot of guilt; no one, not even his mother could convince him otherwise, that he was not to blame. So, to ease his conscience, he finally relented and said he would help Davis Pits for six months. And now, he found himself in the man’s company, repaying a long overdue debt, finding himself caught up in a situation he didn’t enjoy.

  He stopped pacing knowing Pits wouldn’t relent; he just wished that it wasn’t his bullet that had grazed the boy. That didn’t sit right with him, not at all. And to make matters worse, that kid, locked in the back room reminded him of his cousin, Jason St. Andrew who was wounded in the war when shrapnel from an explosion rendered the young boy sightless in one eye. Now, like adding salt to the wound, he had to take the prisoner to the Amy post if only to appease the man. But, as an afterthought, he might be doing the kid a favor; no doubt the boy would get himself into more trouble, anyway.