The Western Werewolf Legend (Books 1-3)

By Catherine Wolffe

The Civil War took Sonja Brooks' husband and left her alone. Unprotected and scared, she runs headlong into a life changing event when she's attacked by a pack of wolves. Her fate as a werewolf is sealed. When she stumbles upon Tyler Loflin, a Rebel soldier dying of his wounds, she nurses him back to health. He's the perfect mate, but will he want her once he knows the truth?

The truth, Sonja Brooks understands is relevant. She's a werewolf with a special 'gift' and faces danger at every turn. Now, the bloodsuckers stalk her family and the man she loves. Escaping to a better place, Ty and Sonja set out for Texas, but will the freedom and safety they seek elude them?

This box set by Catherine Wolffe includes the first 3 books of the Western Werewolf Legend series:
The Lady in the Mist (Book 1)
Waking Up Dead (Book 2)
Wolfen Secrets (Book 3)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catherine Wolffe
• Release date: Feb 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310533938

Catherine Wolffe

Author and Louisiana resident Catherine Wolffe is a romance reader now addicted to the dark, steamy call of the paranormal. She is the author of bestselling vampire/werewolf romance series The Western Werewolf Legend and the novel Desire's Embrace as well as the brand new series - Shadow Company.Catherine has been writing all her life but only recently discovered her love for paranormal romance after being introduced to the Underworld movies by her husband. After that, she decided to delve deeper and create tales hot enough with twists and action aplenty to satisfy her emerging dark hunger.Visit www.catherinewolffe.com/ to get free steamy sneak peeks at upcoming books and more!

Book preview

The Western Werewolf Legend

(Books 1-3)

By Catherine Wolffe

Copyright 2012-2013 Catherine Wolffe

All Rights Reserved

Discover other titles by Catherine Wolffe at www.catherinewolffe.com.

Cover design by Ally Thomas

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Adult Content

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Books by Catherine Wolffe

Salvation Secrets (The Loflin Legacy Prequel)

Comanche Haven (The Loflin Legacy: #1)

Casey’s Gunslinger (The Loflin Legacy #2)

The Lady in the Mist (The Western Werewolf Legend #1)

Waking Up Dead (The Western Werewolf Legend #2)

Wolfen Secrets (The Western Werewolf Legend #3)

A Dance in Time (J.T. Leighton, Time Traveler #1)

Table of Contents

Introduction

The Lady in the Mist (Book #1)

Waking Up Dead (Book #2)

Wolfen Secrets (Book #3)

Books by Catherine Wolffe

About the Author

Introduction

This book includes the Western Werewolf Legend series that I wrote in 2012 to 2013. It includes all 3 books in the series. I’d like to thank my sister, Ally Thomas whose ideas and brainstorming with me on the topic of werewolves vs. vampires is the reason there is The Western Werewolf Legend series. Her support and assistance, while researching a new western world infused with paranormal elements bound by romance, is what I shall always be grateful for. Thank you, Ally!

The Lady in the Mist

(The Western Werewolf Legend - Book #1)

Chapter 1 – The Gift

He appeared in the shadows, preventing Sonja from viewing nothing more than his dark outline. Since she had lived alone after her husband, Robert’s death, she carried a small Derringer in her skirt pocket at all times. With a hand on the gun, she hailed the person.

No reply.

How rude, she had mused. Perhaps he didn’t hear her. Hello, stranger. May I help you?

Still no reply.

You’re trespassing on private land. State your business. Glancing behind her, she started to speak again and lost her voice when suddenly, a hand gripped her. Her snap peas had spilled to the ground before the basket followed. Sonja screamed as the stranger grabbed her arms pinning them to her sides. The small gun clattered to the ground. The vermin laughed coarsely in her ear, and his breath smelled hideous. His ragged nails tore at her flesh. Frantically, she struggled to get away.

Be still, girly. Nobody’s going to hear you, he hissed.

She didn’t intend to obey the stranger. Darkness had fallen suddenly. His eyes glowed red from behind his mask. Sonja fought to see more but to no avail. Show yourself, you bastard. She spits at him.

He laughed again, this time the sound was vulgar and callous. Don’t fret, girly. I’ll make it quick.

Pain seared her senses as he slapped her across the cheek. Sonja’s breath came in pants. He laid his grimy fingers over her mouth. She gulped down the bile that threatened to spill at his decaying carcass body odor. Swearing she had never forgotten the scent, she struggled with more force, but the man’s grip held like iron. His breath tickled her skin. The pain that came next had the world going black.

When she woke, she lay in a pool of blood. The trees above her swayed as if they’d come alive. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sunlight before crying out with the pain shooting through her shoulder. Gingerly testing the area, the flesh didn’t hold over her collarbone. The hard marrow didn’t appear damaged through the raw flesh exposed to the air. She whimpered, though, when her fingers came back with her skin mingled with dark, crimson blood clots. Panicked, Sonja jumped up, running blindly.

***

She woke with a jerk. A sharp pain shot through her whole body, making her cry out. An old woman sat beside her on a cot. With a gnarled but gentle hand, the woman brushed the damp hair from Sonja’s face. Flinching despite herself, Sonja yanked away. The pain sang through her neck and shoulder again.

There, there, my child. Lie still. The healing will be accomplished if you remain quiet, the old woman soothed. My name is Hortence. I’m a witch. Simply stated, the woman’s words were without inflection.

Sonja’s mouth had gapped before she clamped her lips shut. You admit to being a witch?

Yes, I was born a witch, or rather, born with the gift. As I grew, I learned and developed my skills. She waved her arms upward, and fire leaped from her fingertips. My craft is real.

Sonja inched backward. A fleeting glance around and she realized she didn’t recognize her surroundings. Where am I? Her voice sounded strange, almost garbled. Sonja searched the old woman’s face. Watching the old hag as she crooned, Sonja tried her best to understand where she was. Small snatches of horrible pain jabbed at her conscious mind. Sonja shut her eyes, wincing as the pain reminded her how badly she was injured.

Lie still now, the old woman said.

Sonja opened her eyes cautiously.

Hortence crooked her head to the side, before peering at Sonja out of one eye. Sonja couldn’t tell if the other eye had been sewn shut, or the old woman had a permanent squint.

Shush, my child. Lie still. Your wounds are many.

Sonja stared. Who was this old hag with the straggly, gray hair? Where am I? she asked again.

You’re safe, my child. Now, you need to rest. Gently laying a hand over Sonja’s eyes, the old woman murmured soft, soothing words. Rest, my child, rest.

Despite her better intentions, Sonja couldn’t hold her eyes open any longer before falling back into sleep with the woman’s simple urging.

When she awoke, the room held darkness. A dreary cold gripped her. Sonja reached up rubbing at her arms. She had already moved before she remembered her neck. No pain — how amazing, she mused. Perhaps the pain had been only a dream.

Roughly cut, the rafters above her head hung heavy with cobwebs. Rolling her head to the side, she spied the old woman bent over a pot at the fireplace stirring something that smelled like a stew. Sonya’s hunger was acute. She silently hoped the old woman would share. Bending her arms, she took solace in the fact the earlier pain had disappeared. How did I get here?

The old woman turned with the question, giving Sonja a broken toothed smile. I brought you here, my child. At Sonja’s blank stare, the old woman continued, Don’t worry, you’re safe. There’s a protection spell around the cabin. Settling her hands on her hips, the old woman glared at Sonja. Do you remember anything?

Sonja rubbed at her temple. Some, she mumbled. Everything blurred when she tried to recall the attack. I wasn’t dreaming? I was attacked? She wished for some of the soup in the pot over the fire.

Oh, to be sure. You are very fortunate that I happened along. The old woman bent again over the pot to stir. Glancing back, she gave Sonja her broken-toothed grin once more. Don’t fret. I’ll get you something to eat. First, I wanted to hear about the scoundrels who attacked you. She peered quizzically at Sonja with pursed lips. Tell me everything you remember.

Frowning, Sonja tried to sit up. The room spun. She caught her head in her hand before scanning the small space.

The room afforded all the comforts of a modest home. A small kitchen area nestled near the fire while the other side boasted a small seating area. On the opposite wall, the bed anchored the chilly stone expanse. A bench provided enough room for one person. Glancing up, Sonja noted the small window that allowed a sliver of light into the room.

She managed to right herself enough to sit in the middle of the cot and cross her legs. There’s not much to tell. Everything’s blurry.

The old woman sat across the room at the small table. The old woman ate as she listened. Go on.

Uh, I remember seeing someone in front of me on the path. I’d been down by the creek gathering peas from my garden.

Eyeing the bowl contemplatively, Sonja pursed her lips. Her stomach growled. Insulted by the old woman’s rude behavior, Sonja shifted on the cot. Her unease heightened when flashbacks of the stranger appeared in her mind’s eye. She reached up to touch the wound at her throat.

Stop that. The old woman wagged her spoon at Sonja. I’ve already told you to leave the healing alone. The process will go faster if you don’t pick at the wound. Now, continue. She scooped up another spoon full of stew.

Sonja couldn’t help but glower at the old hag. Irritated at the woman’s behavior, but desiring to remember more about the attack, Sonja pushed on. Let’s see. I remember seeing this man standing in the path, but the shadows prevented me from telling anything about his identity. Darkness fell almost immediately. Sonja paused. That seems peculiar because enough light remained for me to get back to the cottage before he appeared. Strange… Her forehead wrinkled in bemusement as she considered why the light had left so quickly.

You’re doing fine. Continue… The old woman’s tone had softened.

Sonja could not stop the pangs of hunger from coloring her opinion of the old woman’s manners. She had offered her nothing of substance so far. I called out, but the stranger wouldn’t answer me. Again, I called out. I smelled something before a set of hands pinned me.

Yes, what did you smell? The old woman’s interest had peaked. She dropped the spoon before placing both hands on her knees. Peering at Sonja from the one eye, she asked, What did you smell? Think, my child.

Perplexed at the strangeness of the question, Sonja glanced at the old woman before dropping her eyes to her hands in her lap. Conscious of the woman staring at her, she shifted. All right! She would try. Straining, she tried her best to bring the scene back into her mind. Yes, I remember a smell… She wrinkled her nose. Decay - like rotting meat. Glancing back at the old woman, she searched her face, which remained blank.

Go on.

With a heavy sigh, Sonja relayed the rest of the story to the old woman. Finally gaining a bowl of the stew for her trouble, she ate every bite.

What do you think it all means? Sonja desperately wanted answers. Instead of answering, the old woman hummed as she merely stirred the pot. Perhaps Sonja should get up and go. Her house remained empty, and she had animals to tend. But when she stood, everything spun, and she reached back for the cot to anchor her.

Turning, the old woman stared hard at her, making her feel like a child who’d misbehaved. Didn’t I tell you to rest? Don’t move, do you hear me? Not until that bite heals.

Bite! Sonja couldn’t help her voice raising an octave. I was bitten?

The old woman shot her a one-eyed glare before cackling like a loon. Bitten? Of course, you’ve been bitten. The damn demons tried to kill you. She stepped to the bed, shoving gently at Sonja’s shoulders, settling her on the bed once more. My child, you were bitten by a werewolf. She shook her head slightly. The likes of which I didn’t realize existed here. Now you carry the mark of the beast on your palm. Pointing to Sonja’s hand, she lifted her fingers before turning her hand palm up. See?

Looking down, Sonja scowled at the inverted pentagram she found imprinted in her flesh. Without thinking, she rubbed at the mark. She scrubbed at the skin. Surely, the woman was mistaken.

The mark of the beast can’t be erased, the old woman said quietly. Soon you will start to feel the effects of the change.

Sonja’s eyes grew wide. Change?

Yes, as the earth turns the moon grows closer. During this phase of the cycle, you’ll experience changes. She patted Sonja’s shoulder.

What sort of changes? Sonja asked out of a strangled voice. Aggravated, she shoved the woman’s hand away.

The stew she had wanted so badly didn’t seem like such a good idea, as she only had time to lean over the edge of the cot before retching. A slow wash of perspiration engulfed her. Moaning, she lay back against the pillow. Sorry, she whispered.

The witch clucked her tongue. Don’t worry, my child. Waving her hand in the air, the old woman mumbled something. To Sonja’s surprise, the stench evaporated. When Sonja rose up enough to look, the mess had disappeared as well. Slowly her eyes tracked from the floor back to the woman standing in the middle of the small room. Hortence continued to smile.

What do you want from me? Sonja asked with a quiver in her voice.

Nothing, my child. The question is what do you want of your life?

When Sonja didn’t answer, the old woman sighed and picked up Sonja’s half-eaten bowl of stew before hobbling back to the small kitchen area. As the moon grows fuller, you will begin to evolve into a creature with great power. Your teeth will grow sharp, and your nails will grow long.

With a shake of her head, Sonja tried to reject the words the woman said. I don’t believe you. You’re crazy! Gripping the bed, Sonja swallowed the sickness that threatened once more. She cut a glare at Hortence. Get away from me, you old hag. I don’t believe in such things. You’re mad! Turning for the door, she yanked the handle. The light of day greeted her as she raced out. Nausea followed.

Sunshine flitted through a heavy cloak of trees. Maybe she had reacted too hastily. Glancing over her shoulder, she wished she had a clue as to her whereabouts. The old woman’s cabin sat nestled in the midst of an oak thicket, one unfamiliar to Sonja.

How do I get home? Baring her teeth with her fists clenched tightly at her sides, Sonja glared into the watery eye of the old woman standing in the doorway.

Suddenly, the old woman stood right behind her as if she had materialized. When you come to the fork in the road, take the path to the right that will lead you home. With a sweep of her hand, she touched Sonja’s cheek. You carry the gift. Her brief statement gave Sonja the impression the old woman expected her to understand.

The gift?

Yes, you will be the one who leads the Guardian’s followers into the new millennium.

You’ve got to be kidding! With wide eyes full of shock, Sonja stared after the woman. She might be imagining the whole thing. Surely, the woman had not said she would lead anyone anywhere! She had trouble leading the goat out of the barn. Why are you babbling on about a Guardian and me leading his pack? I don’t understand. Trying for polite, she offered, Perhaps you’re mistaken. I’m a widow with a small farm I tend myself. I have no plans to change. Her exasperation showed as she finished. I’m going home now that I’m feeling much better."

Hortence scanned her face. You are changed forever, my child. The place you call home cannot hold you anymore. She smiled with sympathy. With time, you will learn the ways of the wanderer. His name is Guardian. He brought you to me for training. When Sonja only blinked in response, Hortence added, To lead his pack.

Sonja couldn’t control the laughter. The sound began as amusement but quickly evolved into hysteria. The woman was mad, as mad as the Hatter in Alice’s Wonderland. Perhaps the whole thing was as simple as a dream, like Alice’s. She was dreaming so when she awoke, she would have a lively tale to tell her sister, Brianda. Sonja fisted her hands while pondering what to do. The need to leave made anxiety clog her throat. To panic wouldn’t help the situation, but she wanted to run wildly down the path screaming out her frustrations.

Hortence smiled.

Wrinkling her brow, Sonja cut a dubious look the old woman’s way. You seem as cool as a cucumber. Why?

The old witch cocked a gray brow.

Still, she had to admit, something made her feel strange. Her nerve endings were tingling. Her sense of smell seemed heightened. She could even hear the mouse nibbling on a crumb in the opposite corner of the cottage near the fireplace. Trembling set in and she tamped down the urge to simply bolt.

Hortence continued to smile but said nothing.

Irritation mingled with the concern of where she found herself stirred in her gut.

You will come again. The smile widened across Hortence’s face before she turned, disappeared, and then reappeared on the threshold of the small hovel. The shutting of the cottage door left Sonja blinking as she stood alone in the dead leaves covering the forest floor.

Sonja swallowed. Gratitude mingled with relief rose up and almost swamped her. Glancing down at the bandage on her upper arm, she blinked. The wrapping was neat, clean and smelled of disinfectant. Hortence had taken good care of her. Thank you, Sonja whispered. Glancing around, she jumped when Hortence’s voice came to her.

No thanks are necessary. Your visit was an honor for me. The old woman’s voice came to Sonja, startling her.

***

Waking, Sonja sat bolt upright, a tingling along her spine. Unable to fathom what seemed wrong, she shook off the chill slithering over her skin. The quilt provided some warmth, so she huddled under the heavy cotton cover. Oh God! It had been only a dream. Her hand shook as she threaded her fingers through her hair.

Her gaze swept the room as relief flooded her system. She recognized the tiny room as the bedroom she had shared with her late husband, Robert. Now, she sat alone trembling in her frayed flannel gown. Robert had been dead and gone for more than three years, she reminded herself as she snuggled deeper into her blanket.

She had the dream again. The strange tingling in her hands began once more as well. She looked down to see her nails growing distorted and bluish-green. Reminded of the first time the change had happened, she simply sighed, no dream was capable of such magic. A tiny drop of something crimson clung to the nail of her index finger. Sonja brought the digit closer to examine. The droplet glowed in the darkness with only the light of the full moon. She gave her finger a good study. The witch’s words came back to her. As the moon grows fuller, you will evolve into a creature with great power.

Sonja cried out in frustration. She frantically snatched up the tale of her old gown to try wiping the droplet off. The stain remained the whole while mocking her effort. The dream repeated itself more frequently of late. The sensation of her blood coursing through her veins forced her from the warmth of the wedding quilt over to the room’s tiny window. She looked out on the small farm Robert, and she had struggled to build.

Time seemed to stop as she considered the man she had married the year she had turned twenty. Her mother had worried she would be an old maid, but Robert Brooks had ventured into her life one bright summer day. Before Sonja could reconsider, he’d asked her father for her hand. The wheels of time turned, and they’d been married.

Robert had been a blacksmith by trade. Saving every penny, he’d managed to acquire a small parcel of fertile bottomland in the foothills of Pennsylvania. Their plans had included pigs, chickens, and cows as well as a goat for milk. They raised their own food and sold what they didn’t need. The farm would be an ideal place to raise a family.

Robert, being a determined man fed his dream well. During the first couple of years of their marriage, their dream flourished. Then The Civil War started. Their world changed forever. Robert had volunteered within the first days of the conflict between the Union and the upstart Confederates. He’d assured Sonja the uprising would end within weeks. Soon they’d get back to raising a crop and starting a family. Three years had passed. Sonja was now twenty-four.

The surging of blood in her veins drew her back to the present. Sonja leaned against the cool glass of the window to subdue the wave of anxiety, which gripped her when the sensation swept over her. Oh, why couldn’t she be rid of this thing trying to take over her life? How could she remove the damned thing without killing herself? Perhaps, she couldn’t. Perhaps she would become like the one the witch had spoken of, the one called Guardian. Could her dream have been real? The signs were all there. Whenever she grew frightened or threatened, Sonja realized her fingers grew long talons at the ends. She carried the healing wound of a dog attack. Now she had the persistent stain, which wouldn’t leave her hand.

Sonja sighed heavily before returning to the bed once more. What if she had already become a werewolf? What if she had already changed without knowing? She could not completely remember what she had done once she laid down to sleep? Could she have walked in her sleep? The witch had told her Sonja would be capable of terrible acts of violence and murder if she ventured out under a full moon. If the words of the witch were more than a figment of her overactive dream world, then she could expect to change without any control over the act. When the towns’ people found out of her bite, and she and now carried the curse of the werewolf, they’d hunt her down. She would be trusted up and burned at the stake. Silver killed werewolves. She could count on a great silver knife piercing her flesh, stabbing her through the heart.

She needed answers. Panic started to swell her throat shut, sending Sonja off the bed and into her meager stash of clothing to dress. Deciding to go to Hortence’s cottage again, Sonja shoved her bare feet into her only pair of boots before throwing a long cloak over her shoulders and leaving the warmth of her cabin.

***

You’re a werewolf, my child. The old woman’s craggy features softened fractionally in the flickering light of the room’s lone candle. Her words, though spoken with sympathy, were of little comfort to Sonja. Hortence, the witch, peered at her. There’s nothing you can do to stop the curse.

The old hag had not intended to cause Sonja more pain, but the statement delivered with unwavering sincerity stunned Sonja. Dealing with the fact became harder when one denied the truth. Denying the fact she carried the mark of the beast on her palm didn’t make the mark disappear.

Things had been happening to her. The sensation of the blood coursing through her body started right after the attack. For Christ’s sake, she could hear the low roar of her life source rushing through her veins! She had been terrified when her fingernails lengthened to claws before retracting almost as quickly. Remembering the pain only made the incident worse. Not two days before, she had found herself lying in a wooded glade near her small cabin without a stitch of clothing on her body. The next night she had caught herself before she had howled at the moon. The events of the past several days did indeed frightened Sonja to the very depths of her being.

Now, with Hortence’s proclamation, Sonja’s sensibilities were at their wits end. This type of phenomenon made up the tales in children’s folklore. A werewolf? What would become of her? Could she be going mad?

Hortence seemed daft, she mused. Surely, her prediction would turn out to be the rambling of an old, crazy person.

Inching backward toward the door, she glanced down at the wound on her shoulder. Sonja, who prided herself on her common sense, shook with denial. A wild dog caused these, she murmured. I need your help to heal this dog bite. Trembling, she pointed to her wound. After all, worry over the bite was the reason she had sought out Hortence in the first place. Blinking she realized the blood spot, and the talons factored in her traveling through the woods in the wee hours of the morning. Sonja couldn’t help the heavy sigh she released. Certainly, the witch would debunk the idea the wound was anything more as fantasy. She would give Sonja some herbs for healing, and then send her on her way. Despondently, she looked at her shoulder again.

Hortence fretted over a large, black cooking pot hanging above the fire in the hearth. Raising her gnarled fingers high above her head, she closed her eyes and mumbled some unintelligible chant. As if in response, the smoke in the pot rose up in a ghostly green spiral resembling an otherworldly creature.

Come closer, my child. The old woman’s voice broke over the command. I need a snippet of your hair.

Swallowing hard, Sonja slipped closer. Tales of this place and what Hortence did here raced through her mind. Still fretting, she moved near the old woman and her bubbling pot.

Hortence took a rusty knife and sliced off a blond curl, tossing the golden lock into the gurgling pot.

Still irritated, but now more bemused than ever by the witch’s curious behavior, Sonja stepped closer before asking as politely as she could, What’s in the pot?

The witch turned her beady, watery eye on Sonja. Her faded, ancient face stood out in stark relief against the backdrop of the green smoke. Sonja stepped back, deciding she had made a grave mistake in coming. The old woman could be no more than a magician, a conjurer. She probably wanted money or whatever she considered Sonja had of worth. A trick made the woman’s eyes glow green.

You need a spell. The spell is the reason you’ve come, isn’t that so? Shuffling over to a rough, wooden table, she scrounged through the items cluttering the scared surface. Snatching up a bag of tattered burlap, she tossed the bag over her shoulder and into the pot. The ragged bag hit its mark.

The green smoke enveloped the olden sack with a loud crackle as the pot’s fire sputtered. Bright flames of orange and red flared before settling once more.

Sonja blinked in horror.

Did crusted, hairy fingers slip out of the burlap to encircle the worn-out cloth, drawing the bag under the bubbling brew? A tremor of trepidation gripped her. Sonja swallowed hard. She had stayed too long.

The witch began to laugh, a course, calloused sound making the hairs on Sonja’s neck stand at attention. Again, mumbling something indecipherable, she pointed at Sonja, and then at the pot. With a fierce flailing, she waved her hands above her head before calling out, Powers of protection, hear me! I seek the one called Guardian. Show yourself.

The brew hissed and spewed upward in great gurgling plops while the witch continued to wave her hands, swaying in a trance-like state.

Sonja stepped back in defense. What a crazy woman! Sonja turned for the door. Berating herself for a fool, she reached for the handle.

Suddenly, a strong, hand gripped her with sharp points of pain digging into her shoulder. When she dared, look back, a hairy hand with talons similar to her own anchored her in place. Wheeling with the force of the grip, Sonja had the misfortune to come face to face with a beast as black as pitch. The mouth of the creature jutted out from hair-covered jowls. Opening his mouth, Sonja could see his surprisingly white teeth ran in a ragged line until pointed incisors gleamed right below a crusted, bulging nose. The beast’s nostrils were far too big on his hairy face. His bluish tongue ran out, licking against the side of the creature’s snout in a slobbering, snarling smack.

One scream erupted which sounded very much like her own. The sensation of spiraling downward sluiced over her in a sickening wash of panic. The room had spun out of control before everything went black.

Chapter 2 – The Lady

Cannons erupted in the distance. Lieutenant Tyler Loflin opened his eyes and glanced around once more. A smoky haze drifted over everything like a fog in a dream. Vaguely he remembered where he lay. He’d fallen amid the murky water of a southern Pennsylvania swamp. The dampness seeped into his bones, numbing them but not the pain. Ty remained motionless though the heat radiating from the burning wagons loaded with supplies resembled hell’s own. His efforts to remain conscious wavered. Fighting the encroaching darkness, Ty finally succumbed to the pain of his wounds again.

Behind his closed lids stood the old, rambling whitewashed house of his home, Shooter Creek. The gentle hills’ quiet peace beckoned to him. Returning in his mind to the pastures where his horses roamed untouched by the cruelty of war, Ty moaned as the pain in his leg reminded him the scene lived only in his head. Using the back of his faded, gray uniform sleeve, he wiped at the sweat on his forehead.

Those days seemed to be from someone else’s life now. There, in his mind’s eye stood the family he’d left behind his brother, John, standing ramrod straight on the steps of the family’s home. Ty resembled John in many ways. His brother’s fierce determination and code of honor anchored Ty these days while his happy-go-lucky nature remained buried, all but forgotten in the throes of war.

Then, Cloe, the half-breed Comanche, and John’s wife, stood stoically on their front porch. Her deep green eyes didn’t miss a thing. She held John’s heart in the palm of her lovely hand. In her arms, she cradled their newest baby, Billie. Laura Loflin, John’s mother, would’ve said the baby favored her grandmother. Ty agreed.

A strapping, dark-haired boy of five stood beside Cloe. His name was James, after John and Ty’s father. Ty would admit the boy played havoc with Ty’s affections. The twins, Sara, and Mattie played happily on their palette while Maggie McVey, the family’s housekeeper turned adopted matriarch, took care of them with pride. She had been a fixture at the ranch as long as Ty could remember. Since the death of his mother, Running Deer, she had been his rock in the storm.

The picture of them seemed real. Ty couldn’t help reaching up to grasping at the thin wisps of haze as the fog floated over him. He hated to cause them pain. Damn the Yankee bastards to hell and back. If he could get up, he’d shoot every one of the bloodthirsty bastards in the heart for what they’d done! Another cannon erupted. This time, the explosion sounded closer. Ty licked his parched lips and wiped the fever’s perspiration from his temple. Only vaguely annoyed now, he errantly blinked at the picture of his family. He would miss them so much.

Visualizing them on those steps, Ty focused on his family instead of the melee around him. He remembered how much he had enjoyed getting under John’s skin about wasting no time in increasing the family lineage immediately following his marriage to the eastern educated, half-breed with the sparkling green eyes. He smiled. One day, he’d like to increase his own lineage.

The late evening sky lit up once more with the explosion of yet another cannon ball.

Ty blinked before coming back from inside his head. He gritted his teeth as pain radiated down his leg. He cut his gaze around at the destruction. After the initial attack, he and his men had taken cover in the swamp. With the addition of the smoke, which hung thick and unyielding, the land resembled the marshes back in Louisiana instead of the hollows of Pennsylvania.

Refusing to acknowledge the blood mixed with the muddy water could be his own, Ty chose instead to focus on the circumstances around him. The desire to sleep tempted him. He struggled against the strong pull of unconsciousness. Vigilance remained imperative. Confederate Major General Jeb Stewart, his commander, expected nothing less.

Have to stay alert! Ty bore down hard on the encroaching dizziness. His peripheral vision started to close in.

Must stay awake, he whispered to the dead men scattered like broken toy soldiers all around him. Have to report to headquarters, he reminded himself as his eyes closed of their own volition.

Guns discharged. Men screamed. The battle had been more of a massacre than a conflict. Ty was lucky to be alive. Able to recall few of the details of the ambush, Ty’s head lolled to one side. Explosion after explosion had erupted before the pain brought him back to the present.

His mission had been top-secret. His cavalry unit was given orders to report to Major Jeb Stewart with their supplies destined for the vast wasteland simply known as The Wilderness. His unit had traveled within twelve miles of Richmond before the Yankees attacked them in the foothills surrounding Spotsylvania. Retreating to the cover of a nearby bog, the Rebels hunkered down. The Yankees continued their assault. At first, the hope of reinforcements had bolstered the men’s courage. But the long hours of waiting for help, which never arrived, proved most disheartening. Darkness fell. The burning of the wagons had been the final blow. His men didn’t have a chance of escape. Most died where they’d fought so bravely. The rapid fire of the Yankees’ repeating rifles sang overhead. Fierce, uncontrollable flames broke out almost immediately as his men tried frantically to reverse the wagons loaded with ammunitions to a safer distance.

Then came the explosions.

Desperately, Ty tried to backtrack to protect as much of his supply loads as possible before they fell into enemy hands. Few of the wagons or Ty’s men survived as the sharpshooters picked off the Rebel soldiers like ducks on a pond.

While wagons blazed, shouts of warning rolled over him. Ty’s men fled past his position and directly into the path of more snipers’ fire. In the commotion, his commands to hold their positions had been mute. He would never forget the pitying, erratic dance of his men, their bodies already dead before they met the ground.

In the dregs of unconscious, he relived the fighting again. Sniper fire sounded overhead, Ty’s flight or fight instinct jerked him to attention, his pistol waving wildly about. The effort proved to be too much for him, and he fell back into the water.

Wiping his eyes, Ty glanced around amid the mangled bodies of his comrades. His throat burned the heat from the flames scorching the tender skin of his esophagus. He’d give a month’s pay for a drink of water, he mused. Firelight flickered all around him, brilliant and bold. The flames licked greedily at the ammunitions boxes as they erupted, their explosions echoed through the crags and bluffs of the valley. Trees stood like blackened sentinels, a bleak reminder of the brutality of man. Ty glanced down at the shrapnel protruding from his thigh with detached interest as if he were looking at someone else’s leg. He was bleeding out. The reinforcements wouldn’t get there in time. Tugging a medallion hanging on a long, silver chain beneath his woolen jacket, he rubbed the precious metal. Months would pass before John got word of his death, he worried, but at least the medallion would give those who buried him a name to put on his stone. Weakening rapidly, he realized his time must be drawing near because he couldn’t work up the strength to care that he would never see home again. He loved his home. Death was the only reason he could fathom that would take his concern for what he loved. In the distance through the fire and the darkness, he saw his long dead father and mother. He would be with them very soon. Still unable to give the idea the attention it deserved, he glanced at the ruins absently. Almost time to go.

Another explosion sent more shrapnel raining down. His men lay strewn at awkward angles in death. Soon the Yankees would descend like the plague. He’d witnessed the scavengers going through the belongings of the dead or dying searching for whatever they could carry off the bodies. His men. The idea tore at his gut.

Wiping the blood out of his eyes, Ty gathered his last ounce of strength. He was going to die, so taking as many Yankees with him as possible would be a fitting way to go. At least the loss of his men’s lives wouldn’t be for nothing. With all the strength he had left, Ty struggled to stand. Slowly dragging himself upright, he stumbled once before bracing himself against a nearby tree. His breath came ragged and weak. Stars floated in front of his eyes. Ty gave his head a good shake. The stars spun behind his eyes while he checked his revolver. No need to ponder his fate, so he’d go out with guns blazing. It’s what cowboys did.

The sound of the Yankees advancing caused ripples in the murky water as the horses hooves pounding in the earth grew nearer. With his back against the tree, Ty strained hard to see the blue-bellied killers. Here they come! Their blue coats were standing out in stark relief against the smoke and flames. Like haints unable to cross over because of crimes done on earth, the Yankees came marching in unison toward the bodies of his men. Ty refused to watch. His vision clouded again. Got to stay awake. Damn their immortal souls, he swore under his breath, They’ll pay! He struggled to lift the revolver.

Footsteps sounded from behind him. They sounded too small to be a man’s. The ground didn’t crunch and grind with the shifting of rocks, he mused. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement as another thieving Yankee took Ty’s sergeant’s pocket watch. Curse their wretched lives! More would come, he snarled to the smoke and fire. Let them come.

Falling to his back with his revolver in his hand, Ty leaned over, aiming at the apparition floating in the smoky haze. Scanning to either side, Ty found only one body advancing in the damnable smoke. Who’s there? he hissed as blood choked his throat. The gun in his hand shook, but he forced his one good eye to focus on the form moving closer.

Easy, mister. The voice belonged to a young female. She formed out of the mist. Human or ghost, Ty couldn’t tell as the woman advanced in the urethral fog that hung over everything in sight.

You’re hurt. Helping is all I’m about. The slight, slender form of a woman in a gauzy drape slipped closer until she stood within steps of his position. She all but hovered like an angel. Her voice, a sweet, sing-song whisper, settled nicely in his fevered mind.

Mesmerized, all Ty could do was stare. His head pounded as if the whole of the Army of the Potomac marched between his eyes. The apparition faded in and out of his vision. Struggling to focus, he fought to remain awake. He had to remain alert! Report! Nausea swam in his gut. The wet ground soaked his uniform as he sank deeper into the mire. Stay back! he ordered. Hearing the slur of his own tongue, Ty sought a more convincing voice. I don’t want to have to shoot you, but I will! Do you understand? Back, I said!

There, there, mister. I won’t hurt you. A small delicate hand reached out, touching his shoulder. I’m here to help.

Ty flinched, jerking back before aiming the gun at the chest of the mud-clad form of a golden-haired woman. Without the sight in one eye, he could only surmise she wasn’t a soldier. Stories, of the enemy’s women running a man through with a blade or a sword simply for being a Rebel, made him cock the gun. He shoved back further digging into the muddy bank. Watch her hands, you buffoon! Get back. I’ll shoot you even if you are a woman. Stay away! He had no such intentions of harming her, but he prayed she believed his words.

He rubbed at his eyes with his coat sleeve. Praying seemed of little use these days. His faith in the prayers, even less, but they were the only things he had left at the moment. The woman’s smile stilled his hand. She was an angel sent down from heaven.

Sir, I’m here to help. My name is Sonja. I only want to attend your injuries. Don’t worry. Her small hand stroked his cheek. Ty tried to fight by shoving at her. Her hand simply gripped his. Take heed, sir, I mean you no harm. You’re safe now. You’re saved.

The woman’s hand ran lightly over the wound in his thigh as she bent forward. The cannon fire receded to a distant rumble as her gentle fingers glided over his flesh. A drawing sensation washed over him. Someone cried out. Did he scream? The blood in his veins coursed through his body. The sensation grew stronger as his hold on consciousness ebbed away. Slowly his body relaxed and the pain eased. With his eyes fluttering shut, Ty floated on a cloud of oblivion. He smiled inwardly as cool water lapped at his fevered skin while tall grasses caressed his dying body. Birds sang from the treetops and white clouds floated in the bluest of skies. He must be home.

Chapter 3