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THE QUARTERING

Chapter 1 The Deserter - November, 1780 The Berkshires, Commonwealth of Massachusetts

Ceara Connolly closed the door behind her and descended the stairs without making a sound. Thankfully free of cumbersome hems and petticoats that only got soiled and weighed her down, she crossed the street with wide strides, passing her neighbors' homes where they lay quietly tucked in their beds. The side street she chose skirted the back of the common area and was an easy way to the path. Glancing up at the treetops, she noted their stillness after a night of howling winds. Now, an unearthly silence surrounded her in the final hour before dawn, as if the earth held its breath until the sun should arise. Far overhead a few brighter stars still shown in the heavens, challenged not only by the approaching dawn but by the bank of leaden clouds moving slowly but threateningly eastward. Pulling her brother's jacket closer, she accepted the fact that snowfall was imminent, probably by midday at the latest. But the cold was not the only reason she shivered, quickening her pace along the deserted path.

Within minutes she approached the edge of the dark, silent forest, shivering and shrugging her head down into the scarf. In her earlier years she had loved running through there with Jamie, hiking up to the ridge to see the valley spread out below them. They would spend the day together there, imaginations and dreams free to soar. Their adventures took them to hunt for dens and tiny pools of life, but she was no longer a child. Neither was Jamie, who was stationed further west at Fort Stanwix, as were most of his friends, leaving her with no one to indulge her boyish pursuits.

Now, turning her attention to the distant point where the path met the road, fear swooped up and over her like a bird of prey as she studied the wood in apprehension. Mocking and taunting whispers assaulted her mind, telling her she had no sense, walking alone in the darkness. Someone could be watching or waiting for someone just like her to come along…

It was true that walking to work at this hour was not her most sensible course of action, but waiting for the supply wagon would have delayed her shift even more. And she couldn't ask Betsy to come along, not on her free day. As she pictured her friend's contented smile as she lay sleeping in her featherbed, cocooned in warmth, Ceara could never have denied her the luxury. Besides, it was her turn to work today, despite the fact they had only two patients in Betsy's ward. Rules were rules, she realized, thinking the one that stipulated one trained staff person be present to keep the clinic open was particularly absurd. Patients or no patients, someone had to be there.

With a shiver of a shrug she fixed her gaze on the road ahead, intending to pass safely there at her earliest opportunity. Still, she couldn't help glancing behind to confirm she was alone, despite the feeling that she was not. Hugging her bag closer, she reminded herself that the route to the infirmary was safe enough, now that a relative peace prevailed over the county. No, the only living thing that might be watching her would be a deer or coyote, no doubt preferring to avoid her as much as she would them. The bears, thankfully, were already sleeping in hibernation.

As the path edged closer to the trees, she shuffled loudly through the mounds of dried leaves with purpose. The dusky odor of mold and rotted vegetation made her sneeze, so she blessed herself and sped up over the partially frozen ground of late November. The sky was streaked with pale plumes of light, indicating the approach of sunrise. With one ear tuned to the sound of the supply wagon, she told herself he would be coming along soon enough. Taking a deep breath of cold air into her lungs, she marched onward up the path.

Staggering against the wall of what smelled like pine, Aaron reached out for support, feeling his hand slice off a chunk of bark in the effort. Looking dazedly down to the place where it fell to the distant earth, he wound an arm around the unyielding trunk and clung to it, panting and trying to clear his vision. Another spasm of shivering caused pain to stab at his side, making him groan and grip his middle. Lowering his head against the dizziness and nausea circling within him, he waited until it faded again, evaluating his position. He had already faced the obvious fact that his survival was at best doubtful, so he prayed for mercy to at least deliver his message in time. Then, shoving away from the tree he moved on, making a mental note that if somehow he did succeed he would be sure to point out to his superiors their sad lack of foresight should anything happen to him and interrupt its delivery. But he already knew their answer: people in his position were few, particularly in this part of the colonies, and one had to take the utmost care to enlist anyone new. Unfortunately his past successes had given them no reason to consider an alternate, nor even a replacement. He laughed despite his pain, seeing the irony of his situation. Whatever might happen to him after the message was delivered was of secondary importance. And after everything he'd suffered, he had to admit that he truly no longer cared.

If only he had not come upon his men by surprise, interrupting their last foul attempt to make their mark on the hated colonists before deserting north. He'd been suspicious of their plans and had watched them carefully over the past fortnight, and only hours before they'd discovered him. What troubled him was why they hadn't just deserted and gotten it over with. As he continued on his way under the dense cover of the wood, he clutched his side, keeping an eye on the road in hopes of passing on his message.

Yet he kept seeing the girl, cursing their choice of an innocent upon whom to vent their anger and frustration. The details were foggier now, but he could never forget her face, so young and wide eyes, then twisted with terror and revulsion. They were going to rape her: he'd known it, and she'd known it. Though she had fought back, her chances had been slim even when he was able to intervene. God only knew what else they might have done to her in their inebriated state, murder coming foremost to his mind. Interrupting them had been necessary if not thrilling, for it had been a very long time since he had felt good about his actions. They might have injured him and gotten away, but so did she.

He looked toward the road again, trying to focus his eyes in the darkness. As he did he saw some movement and he ducked further back behind a tree trunk. Yet his trained eye caught someone moving along the edge of the forest not far ahead, also avoiding the road. Narrowing his eyes, he followed as best he could, aware of the fever burning within him and toying with his perception.

Surely it was an unusual time to be out for a walk, he mused, unless the boy worked at one of the nearby mills. Gritting his teeth he forced himself to move onto the path, deciding the boy was all he had to pass on his message. Judging by his size and the energy in his steps, he wondered if perhaps he was running away. The telltale bag flopping at his side indicated so, but he hoped it was not to join the fighting. If so he might be able to convince the lad to stay home, but he had to focus upon his primary objective: how to get his attention without causing alarm. As he stumbled after the lad he pictured himself more comic than threatening and felt like laughing at himself; it was better than raging and crying.

Ceara's heart began to pound as the feeling grew stronger. Her efforts to convince herself that she was imagining it were failing. Something was in the woods, watching her, following her. She could feel it, and fears centering around the recent attack by a mountain lion over in the next town loomed over her. Still, she told herself, there was nothing she could do and it was best to show no fear. She had only a few more minutes before regaining the road and straightening to her fullest height and lengthening her stride she set her face to that distant point. Gripping her bag tighter she kept her eyes ahead, not seeing the gnarled tree root that was in her path. When her boot caught she gasped and stumbled, startling a pair of doves from their nest in the bushes. Skipping until she gained her balance, she watched them fly off toward the stone wall, still feeling the eerie weight of a pair of eyes.

Gathering his last bit of strength, Aaron cut toward the path, his progress unbelievably slow. His plan was to intercept the lad a few meters distant, revealing himself at the juncture of the slight rise where the path met the road. It was his only hope, yet a greater challenge than he had anticipated. He was losing more blood: he could feel it pooling inside his boot beneath the hole in the sole of his sock, yet thankfully not leaving a trail behind. His side felt like it was on fire, his feet long since half numb from the cold. He felt inordinately sleepy, not from exhaustion as much as from exposure. With a gasping wheeze he concentrated all his attention upon the lad, telling himself not to be overly troubled by what he was beginning to observe from the youth's behavior.

The lad moved somewhat erratically, stumbling and glancing behind as if scared of his own shadow. Now that he was drawing nearer Aaron heard the occasional mutters and gasp of speech, unintelligible to his ears and making him wonder if the lad was touched with madness. Worse, what if he proved incapable of remembering names and dates? Still, such a person would not be roaming about unsupervised. No, he will have to do, he decided as the moment to reveal himself drew near. Either that or fall flat on his face trying, message undeliverable. Having chosen the former, he trudged onward, distinguishing the words being spoken and frowning in response.

"…yea, though I walk…through the valley of the shadow of death," Ceara recited aloud, tension clutching her throat, "…I will fear no evil—"

"Not a religious fanatic", Aaron moaned, still forcing himself onward the boy. He was only a few meters away and it was time. "Please—" he croaked, his voice hoarse and feeble to his own ears.

Ceara heard an eerie sound and sped up, quoting aloud the words of comfort. "For thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff comfort me," she panted, nearly running. "Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies…"

Lunging out of hiding, Aaron cried out again, his pain intensifying with the effort. "Help meee," he groaned as loudly as he could.

Ceara stopped abruptly, her cap nearly falling off her head. Whirling around, she scanned the dark woods suspiciously, her breath shooting out in white puffs, ghostly in the eerie golden light. Forcing herself to hold her ground, she prepared herself to scream and frighten away whoever was in there. It was someone; she had heard them cry for help. With her eyes darting along the edge of the forest, she listened and waited.

Burning pain raging like a fire out of control, Aaron nevertheless saw that he'd been heard. The lad stood without moving, gazing in his direction. An irrational spurt of joy burst within him as he dragged himself from the dense brush. "Over here…" he croaked. "Please, help..."

Heart pounding wildly, Ceara stared into the darkness toward the place where a cry had issued forth. Praying for the supply wagon to suddenly appear, she waited, torn by indecision. Longing to flee toward the empty road and ignore it, she nevertheless found she could not move. Something told her to wait, and as she did she thought about what it would be like to be hurt and crying for help, only to be ignored. Maybe someone had lost their way in the woods or injured themselves, which happened often enough around these parts. As she stared toward the forest she saw something dart from one tree to another, something large and cloaked in black. Covering her mouth to keep from crying out she watched in horrified silence as he came toward her, took a few hesitant steps and then crumpled to the ground.

Floating as if in a dream, Aaron was vaguely aware of falling. Strangely, he felt set free, as if he were flying. His gaze moved heavenward where a golden thread along the black horizon rose to reveal the sun. Suddenly the landscape was bathed in golden light, its silence strangely comforting. He made contact with the ground, at first feeling it like a nudge of someone's elbow. He felt like a marionette, twisting and settling back as if to lie down. Then his side met the frozen earth and a scream tore up his throat, a protest against feeling as if he were being sawn in half. Curling his arm around his wounds he felt his cheek scrape a rock as he finally came to rest, buried in a crackling bed of leaves. They filled his eyes with browns and russet colors which he studied in fascination, watching them change to a dull gray before everything went black.

Ceara leapt into action once he lay still, years of training taking control and shoving aside all fear. She ran toward him without knowing if he were unconscious or dead, and that she needed to find out which. Surely he was a victim of the Regulars who sometimes passed through, just as she had been, someone who needed her. As she slowed her steps and stopped a short distance from him, she stood in the pale golden light and gazed down at him, holding her breath. Noting the place where his cloak parted to reveal the red uniform beneath she stood frozen to the spot, her mind flooded with memories and an unbidden wave of panic. Terror gripped her by the throat but she forced herself to take a deep breath. Then moving her gaze up his side to his face she confirmed that he was not the one. Letting out a shaky breath she slowly uncurled her fingers from the death grip in which she held her bag, staring at him in disbelief.

What was a British officer doing here, traveling alone and on foot, no less?

If she was lucky he was a deserter, yet the likelihood of an officer stooping to such a low level was rare. Still, she'd heard stories, and they were situated close enough to the north to make her entertain the possibility. Perhaps he was sneaking off to some intimate rendezvous with another man's wife, she snorted in distaste, finally deciding that his stiff form posed no imminent threat. So she approached him, dropping to her knees at his side and turning to open her bag. Rummaging through its contents she pulled out what she needed and set to work.

He was being rolled to his back, Aaron realized as he began to surface from the darkness. Slowly pulling open his leaden lids, he gloried in the light of the sun and smiled at the crazy swaying of the trees overhead. He felt suspended between joy and despair, day and night, keen insight into the spiritual and numb awareness of his body. He felt the rush of cold air travel over his stomach, the tickling of what felt like powder as it was sprinkled over him. The trees whispered comfortingly to him, the light caught in their arms bathing him in hope. Squinting with effort, he reluctantly lowered his gaze toward earth, down to the boy's cap and unkempt hair he noted as he leaned closer over him. Aaron frowned at the subtle fragrance of flowers, for he had thought it wintertime.

He heard the wet slap of fabric being flung down and felt fingers toying at something at the center of his chest, peeling back his clothing and freezing him as he was exposed to the cold air. The powder which had tickled him began to burn into his wounds, searing him with a flash of pain that was somehow lessened but caused more throbbing. The fingers lowered toward his waist, tugging at his shirt and igniting waves of intense pain throughout his body. Growling in protest, he swung his arm up to defend himself as something warm trickled down his side.

Ceara lurched sideways, deflecting the blow he'd aimed at her shoulder. Though his hand fell limply to one side she leaned closer to grip his shoulders, ignoring his confused expression.

"Keep still!" she shouted, amazed when he quickly relaxed beneath her grip. She watched his eyes dull as he drifted toward passing out again, vaguely aware of their masculine beauty and steely gray colour. Though it would greatly ease his pain to fall back into oblivion she could not afford to let that happen. The crude and dirty, blood soaked bandage had to be changed and she had to get him to his feet. To do all that she had to keep him awake.

"Good, stay that way so I can work," she ordered, pulling his shirt from his pants with one hand and gripping her scissors with the other. Quickly exposing the bandage he'd wound around his waist, she pushed away his clothing and cut apart the old linen to examine the size and shape of the wound. Frowning at the dirt and hay clinging to its reddened edges, she peered around his side to see another wound at his back, one she hadn't noted before he cried out in pain. Something had penetrated the flesh at his side, going in from the front and passing out at his back. Sighing in relief, she judged it to be from a bayonet, not a gun, thankful she would not have to deal with anything embedded inside.

"I'm sorry—I didn't know about your back," she told him without much sympathy, gently peeling away the rest of the bandage. "Which was it, womanizing or deserting? Who caught you, the husband or one of your own men?"

Without waiting for him to answer, she glanced up at his stunned expression while pressing a pad full of powder up into his back, leveling her elbow against his bare chest until he stopped struggling against it. He shut his eyes in agony, clenching his lips tight but uttering no sound, earning her instant respect. Slowly easing the pressure, she reached for a clean bandage and slipped it beneath him to bind the wound.

"They must be searching high and low for you, your being an officer and all," she said, leaning closer to pass a strip of fabric beneath him and around his waist. The finely muscled strength of his body surprised her, for there were not many officers she'd heard of who did the kind of physical activity resulting in such a build. At least not among those she had once treated.

"Another minute and the pain should start to dull," she lectured, placing a larger pad over the nasty bayonet wound in his side and securing it with two small knots. Moving to lean back she gasped when he gripped her wrist, snapping her attention back to his eyes.

When their eyes met Aaron realized his mistake. She stared at him a moment before growling menacingly while she twisted to free herself, then shot to her feet.

"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, pointing an accusing finger at his face and stamping her foot.

He flinched at the vehemence in her tone, staring into the beautiful blue fire of her eyes. Her cap had flown off, spilling her black hair over one shoulder in wild disarray. His confusion concerning the boy who smelled like lavender and flowers was immediately dispensed. Her expression hardened as she came closer and knelt at his side, this time leaning over his chest to pin his shoulders to the ground with surprising strength.

"If you ever grab me again—" she hissed, "I shall scream down every living soul within ten leagues to full alert, so be warned Mister!"

The ferocity of her reaction so belied her petite size and beauty that he stared at her a moment, feeling a wave of hysteria surging up from his chest. Pushing his head back into the frozen ground and too weak to fight it, he croaked with laughter which sounded more like wheezing. This caused him considerable pain which he swallowed, grasping his side with one hand. To his surprise the pain was not as it had been, making him wonder what potion she had sprinkled over him. Gulping down air, he tried to stop the hysteria rocking his chest.

Ceara glared at him in disbelief. He was laughing at her! Swallowing an unladylike expletive, she pulled away. "How dare you—we'll see how funny it is when the militia gets their hands on you, Lieutenant!"

He shifted beneath her with a grunt of pain, making her feel a flash of guilt which she covered up by turning away to rummage inside the depths of her bag.

"Now keep still and let me finish," she said evenly, turning back to smooth salve over his dry and crusted lips. She watched him close his eyes in thanksgiving and smiled despite herself. This is a rare one, she thought without wanting to. He almost acts human…

Her respect for him grew as he endured the discomfort of having his stiff and bloodied clothing refastened in order to keep him from shivering more violently. She could tell by his colour that he was dangerously in need of warmth, and wondered how long she had until he wagon came along.

Fighting a sudden wave of nausea, Aaron opened his eyes and tried to concentrate on her instead. Who is she, this little beauty dressed as a boy? And what is she doing out her, all alone in the dark? She could not have been even twenty years of age, for her skin looked smooth and rosy in the cold light of morning. Though his mind flitted from one possibility to another he decided that she was an angel of sorts, despite her obvious bad temper. An angel that carried medical supplies, and who apparently knew how to use them.

Steeling himself for the inevitable refastening of his jacket, he rejoiced in the scant warmth this afforded him. It was then that he was impressed with the thought that he needed to tell her something, yet he had to struggle to remember. He felt increasingly weak and tired, and focusing his thoughts was an effort. She moved away but rested her hand upon his shoulder, and he realized she was talking to him. It dawned on him that she wanted him to sit up, her voice sounded so like an echo. Squinting up at her, he began to remember and shook his head, resisting her tug at his coat.

"Leave me—" he croaked, watching her brow wrinkle and her eyes fire in anger. But she paused, watching him carefully. "A favor—deliver a message…" he gasped.

"I'm not planning on leaving you," she scowled, nevertheless bending closer as if to better hear him. "What kind of message?"

He swallowed, his throat dry. "An ambush, on the militia—"

A look of shock and confusion lifted her features as she shook her head. "But, your voice—"

"On the tenth, at muster," he gasped, "…it's a trap…warn John Masters..."

Ceara leaned back slightly, keeping her hand on his shoulder as she stared down at him. He had found his voice and spoken, quite clearly, and without any accent. Looking at him with growing suspicion, she decided he was no deserter. Running her eyes over his uniform and focusing upon the cuts around his mouth and the large dark bruises along his jaw, she frowned into his gaze.

"You're not British," she accused, holding the sleepy challenge of his gray eyes. His chapped lips parted very slightly.

"And you're no boy."

Her eyebrows rose a notch higher. "Am I to believe you are a spy?" she said cynically.

He relaxed his head back against the frozen ground, closing his eyes. "It doesn't matter...you know Masters?"

"Yes, but how do you—and who stabbed you?"

"Masters must get word to Fort Stanwix," he choked. "Captain Burke…knows me."

"Masters drives our supply wagon," she said carefully, amazed to hear the sound of the supply wagon at that very moment. She nodded toward the road. "That should be him, now."

Suddenly he opened his eyes, meeting hers. "Help me up—" he croaked, lifting his head with some difficulty.

Placing her hand beneath his neck, she slid her arm beneath his shoulder and managed to half lift, half drag him toward a sitting position. She worried over his labored breathing, alarmed at the wheeze and gurgling she could hear coming from deep in his chest. Fearing the effort would render him too weak to stay alert, she shifted behind him, finally bracing him up against her chest. He groaned and dropped his head forward, and she felt him clench his body to gag.

"Breathe deeply," she soothed, feeling sudden compassion for him. "It will pass, but you're very weak."

After a few difficult breaths, Aaron raised his head and leaned to one side, careful to stay up with all his weight upon one hand. Her advice worked, and he knew he had to trust her in order to get him to his feet. She was petite in form beneath her baggy boy's clothing, and he judged her head might not even reach the top of his shoulder. Yet without further comment she curled her hands beneath his arms and lifted as he bent a knee and managed to lever himself up to the other. She was stronger than she looked, and by the time he got to his feet his suspicions concerning her height were duly confirmed. She wound her arm around his waist as he swayed, planting a hand upon his chest to steady him. They could hear the slow clopping of hooves and the creaking of a wagon drawing near.

"Lean on me," she said, pulling him closer. "Easy now…"

With her guiding and half supporting him, they started across the uneven field. He silently ordered his feet to keep plodding, though he could barely feel them by now. Judging by the sound of the wagon he judged the distance to the road to be more than he could manage, and instead chose a landmark toward which to aim himself. They made slow but steady progress and he felt weaker than he had ever been, even compared to his days in prison. By the time they reached the stone wall he slumped down onto it, lowering his head to its mossy surface as he gasped for breath. Yet he felt like kissing the cold stones in relief.

Ceara wound her arm around his shoulders as he turned his head to retch, but nothing was in his stomach. Tormented with nausea, he continued to moan and gasp for breath, clutching his middle. Gently massaging the back of his neck to comfort him, she felt the spasms pass and smoothed her hand up and down his back.

"Hang on, Lieutenant," she encouraged him as she left his side. "I'll be right back with help."

At the calling of his name John Masters turned his head and saw someone running across the field, waving one arm high at him. As the lad drew nearer he recognized her, despite the boy's clothing. Pulling on the reins, he drew the team to a halt and pulled up the brake.

"Ceara Connolly whatever are you—?"

"Come, quickly!" she waved to him, turning to look back at a figure sitting upon the stone wall. Masters saw a man slumped over, obviously unwell. Without a word he jumped down as she turned back, following her as he shook his head.

"What have you gone and found now?" he complained, suspicious of any stranger in this part of the county, especially one in uniform. He'd thought they'd seen the last of the Regulars pass through by now, but given the fact that Ceara Connolly was with one, he questioned the man's authenticity.

"He came out of the woods," she explained, stepping around him to gently lift his arm over her shoulder and darting under it as he came up to his other side. "Help me get him to the wagon."

Together they eased him to his feet, Masters leaning him more in his direction.

"Watch out," she warned, "he's wounded clean through the side."

"Gunshot?" he asked, guiding his faltering steps toward the wagon with slow progress.

"Bayonet."

Though obviously in pain, the man kept himself upright, but did not lift his head.

"He say anything?"

Ceara looked up with a sly smile. "Strangely enough, he asked for you."

Masters glanced at the man's profile, noting the perspiration over his upper lip and forehead. "He knew my name?"

"He did," she affirmed, concentrating on the slight dip at the side of the road. They maneuvered over it and eventually approached the foot of the wagon bed. Slowly sitting him down upon the lowered gate, she glanced up.

"Ambush," the man gasped without looking up. "At muster, the tenth…"

His head dropped down as Burke nodded and climbed up, reaching to drag him into the wagon. Ceara helped get him situated on his back among the boxes and sacks of supplies.

"He said a Captain Burke at Stanwix can vouch for him," she informed him while covering the patient with an old woolen blanket he kept in the wagon.

Burke...Masters was careful to keep his expression blank as he turned to climb into his seat. "He did, did he?"

"What do you think?" she asked, causing him to turn his head. Burke watched her finish tucking his cloak around his shoulders, folding a tarpaulin over him. She had the man's head in her lap and glanced up.

"He's on our side then," he had to affirm. "But don't tell a soul—we'll have to hide the uniform."

Ceara nodded, pressing her fingers to the side of the man's neck. To Masters his skin looked a deathly white. "We must hurry," she announced as he turned to release the brake.

"I'll help you get him settled, then go for the doctor."

"And you'll relay his message?"

"Of course I will," he admitted. "We cannot risk the safety of the militia."

They reached the estate in a quarter hour's time, pulling up at the back entrance to the infirmary. Ceara tore her eyes from the man's face and looked up at Masters as he approached the foot of the wagon.

"I've thought of an identity for him," he stated, glancing away to be sure no one was about. She pulled away the tarpaulin as he began to climb back up. "I found him in my barn wounded," he said quietly, helping her ease him to the edge of the bed before he jumped back down to reach for him. "He was on his was to desert but they found out and tried to stop him. I was bringing him to the doctor when I saw you walking to work, so I gave you a ride. You don't know anything more than that, understand?"

She frowned as she climbed down and helped him lift him Thankfully Masters was a large man and could carry him in his arms. Opening the door and glancing back before they entered, she helped him lay him upon the table in the surgery. "They will try him and hang him if they find him," she argued, removing his cloak.

"In his business he'll expect that," Masters declared, pulling off the man's boots while she worked on his jacket. "We can hide him pretty well, but if they do catch him we'll have to cooperate. Anything different will raise suspicion…once he's back in British hands the ones who placed him will find out."

"How do you know that?" she hissed, gently peeling off the shoulder of his uniform. "The doctor will have to report him with that story!"

"Ceara, I think I know a bit more about these things than you do..."

She looked up, a doubtful expression on her face. "Do you, Mr. Masters?"

He reddened as he helped her undress the man. "Why, do you have a better plan?"

She nodded, dragging off his shirt. "I think I do…though it's a risky one."

He looked up, scanning the windows beyond the surgery. "Well, tell me quickly before someone comes," he ordered gruffly. "No saying who might be hanging around here."

She nodded, and together they started cleaning him up in preparation for the doctor's arrival. Neither noticed the small head that poked up at the window beyond, or the bright eyes smiling with joy before disappearing from sight.

Masters straightened from his work, planting his hands on his hips as he waited for Ceara to cover the man back up.

"I never thought you'd go back near those woods again," he told her with a nod of approval. "'Twas a brave thing ya did."

"Not brave," she said, looking up with a frown, "just dedicated to my work."

c. 2008 by Christine Levitt

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