Willoughby Texas…

Charlie looked up from her task. She was using a pair of tongs to stir a pot on the stove. Inside was not dinner but boiling water and freshly laundered bandages. As her grandfather's official-unofficial assistant (her mother being his official assistant), she had been spending her entire day doing tasks such as this.

Yes, things like this sucked, but they were still necessary. One couldn't run a doctor's office without supplies and in the post-blackout world there were no packages of sterile gauze or boxes adhesive bandages to be had. A doctor needed to have clean bandages available at all times and it was one of Charlie's many jobs to ensure that he did.

One by one she pulled them out. She put them in a plastic tub. Later she would hang them up to dry in what used to be the guest bathroom. Once they were dry they would be carefully stored until needed and any wounded souls in Willoughby would be assured that any infection they might receive wouldn't be from their bandages.

A knock came to the door, interrupting her from her task. When it became clear that no one else was going to answer it, she set down the tongs and headed to the other side of the house to do it herself.

She opened the door to reveal a Texas Ranger. "Charlotte Matheson?"

"Yes?" She did her best to swallow back the nervousness that his presence caused. What could the Rangers possibly want with her? The times her family had dealt with them in the past usually involved rather large quantities of bullets, and as boring as her life had become over the past year that was something she'd rather avoid.

The ranger handed her a letter before tipping his hat and turning to head down the porch stairs. Charlie watched him for a second before closing the door. She turned the letter over and inspected the wax seal. The "M" imbedded into it told her exactly where it was from, and that only one of two different people could have sent it.

That at least explained the special delivery. Any correspondence sent from Nashville would have to go through official channels. To send anything otherwise could be seen as an act of treason on the recipient's behalf and an act of war. There was still a lot of tension between Texas and the new Monroe Republic, despite the friendship of sorts that had sprung up between Blanchard and Monroe. Just because the latter had played a significant role in saving Texas from itself didn't mean that he wasn't a potential problem, after all.

She finally broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter carefully. She almost began to read before she thought better of it. Suddenly an overwhelming urge for privacy hit her. Folding it back up, she stuck it in her pocket before going back to her chore with the bandages. It would have to wait until later.

Late that night, after sharing a quiet dinner and conversation with her family and the Pittmans, Charlie finally made her way to her bedroom. Mindful of the letter that had been burning a hole in her pocket all day; she pulled it out and set it on her nightstand. After getting ready for bed and turning the lamp down, she burrowed under the blankets, with every intention of waiting until the morning to read the letter.

She tossed and turned for the better part of an hour before she finally gave up on the pretense of sleep. She may have been trying to deny it, but she was dying to know which of the two Monroes had been the author of her letter. For reasons she couldn't explain, that seemed to be more important than its actual content.

She relit her lamp and turned the wick up just enough for her to see. She reached for the letter and unfolded it once more. She knew before she even started reading it that it was most definitely from the elder of the two men.

Charlotte,

I've found myself in a bit of trouble and I'm hoping you're willing to help me. Needless to say, any hopes I'd once had of Miles joining me here in Nashville have been abandoned, so I can't turn to him and Connor isn't what you would call up for the task either. I find myself in need of not only an advisor that I can trust, but also one that is willing to speak freely and candidly on several different issues. The future of the Republic depends on it.

I will be frank; things here have not gone according to plan. All my best efforts have for the most part gone to waste. On top of that, some things happened between me and Connor that are only adding to the instability, not only in Nashville but throughout the entire Republic.

I'd written to your uncle more than once for advice, but he has made it very clear that he will under no circumstance step foot on the eastern side of the river, let alone help me in any way. And so, I am writing to extend my offer of a position in Nashville to you.

I'm sure you are perfectly inclined to respond by telling me to go fuck myself, but I'm asking that you at least come to Nashville and hear me out and see what I am trying to do before you give in to that impulse.

A courier will await your reply at the border crossing on Baton Rouge.

With warmest regards,

Gen. Sebastian Monroe

P.S. I'm begging you. I need help, Charlie - Bass

Charlie folded the letter neatly and sat up in bed, propped against her pillows. She stared at the back of it, her gaze once more settling on the now broken seal. The sight of the "M" reminded her so much of the horror that was the old Republic. This sent a shudder through her.

Of course, he was right. Her first instinct had been to burn the letter and send the ashes of it back to him with a letter of her own (which would likely only contain the words "fuck" and "you"). But then her thoughts went back to that post script. That one line stopped her.

The remainder of the letter was so formal and if she'd learned anything from him, he adopted the formality to hide his more psychotic tendencies. In contrast, the man she'd fought beside was crass and vulgar—deliciously filthy (and fun, if she'd only admit it to herself). The mass murderer called her Charlotte without fail—it was a matter of protocol. The only time that the other side of him called her that was when he was trying to prove a point—or just piss her off.

The post script was so informal that it bordered on sincere. The personal addition was so unlike the general persona that she just couldn't get it out of her mind. As she contemplated this, she realized that there was something else about the letter that was odd. Something with the way it was written. She unfolded it for a third time.

She'd seen dispatches from him before—copies of letters the rebels and the Georgia Federation had intercepted when they were still trying to overthrow him. The handwriting then was so perfectly uniform and straight. It was like the man had a talent for even lines and spacing. Aaron had even said once that it appeared almost as if he'd done it on a computer (which had been impossible of course, but it was just that perfect).

This letter was anything but. Sure, the handwriting itself was the same confident script he'd always used. The letters were formed the same as always, slanted just so in indication of his being left handed. That is where the resemblance ended. This was written so badly that it was actually almost sad. The lines were poorly spaced and were written uphill in some places, downhill in others. He'd taken an entire page to write something that could just have easily fit in the top half. The only word she could use to describe it was sloppy. The General didn't do sloppy—it was a sign of weakness, after all.

Charlie laid awake in her bed the remainder of the night. After much thought and changing her mind more than once, she finally made her decision. She crawled out of bed and shoved some clothes and other necessities in a backpack. Dashing off a quick note, she slipped out the back door before anyone else was awake. There was an early train to New Orleans every Friday (lucky her).

What are you thinking? She asked herself as she waited to pay her fare for the train ride. It was not cheap and it took most of her meager savings. He is SO reimbursing me… with interest. Of course she could have sent her response in writing. It was obvious that was what he'd expected. He probably planned on hearing from her within a week or two and then (hopefully) making arrangements to send for her later. Well, if there was anything she'd learned from the man was to keep him guessing or he'd run roughshod all over you—and that was something she couldn't allow.

When she got to the border she found the courier easily enough. He'd been expecting, of course a letter. What he had not expected was this young and feisty blonde insisting on travelling to Nashville immediately. His initial reaction was to inform her that he needed to send word to Nashville for further instructions, but Charlie could be very convincing when she needed to be.

The end results were that she was on a train north by the end of the day and that the courier was just a little bit afraid of her. As the young man climbed aboard after her, he realized that their President in Chief may very well have bitten off more than he could chew with this strong-willed viper—and that he was more than happy to deliver her to his doorstep and have nothing else to do with her.