I read and read. I don’t stop until the sun comes up. The only breaks that I take are crying ones. I try to keep my composure, but I’m not very good at it apparently because as the sun rises, my eyes ache. I know they are probably puffy and rimmed in red, but the story is heartbreaking, all of it.
Temperance and the woman, her name never mentioned, don’t survive. Their home is overrun by the enemy and though she survives far too long in their clutches, she must have been put out of her misery because it ends and nothing else is ever written.
Gently closing the book, I wrap it in its leather binding, and slip it back in the nightstand drawer. I understand this man a bit better now that I’ve read about his wife, about his daughter, and no doubt the hells that they ultimately did not survive.
I stare at nothingness as I think about what I’ve just read. I don’t know what to do. I feel absolutely helpless, then I think about how Colt must have felt. No doubt he went home to her after the war, home to find her gone. Then he became some type of huge leader, like the president, and he’s all alone.
He’s achieved so much and his wife never saw any of it come to fruition. All this does is make me want to get to know this man better.
This man whose wife was so strong, who fought for her life and her daughter’s. Who ultimately had to succumb to the hell and torture that the enemy no doubt put her through.
Mrs. James was strong. Whoever she was. Leaning back against the headboard, I try not to think about what she went through. Though judging by the shaky handwriting in the last few entries and the way she described the men forcing themselves on her hour after hour, day by day, I know that it was a lot.
The door flies open just as I’m wiping some of the new tears from my eyes. Martha stands in front of me, her hands on her hips and her head tilted to the side.
“You best not tell him you found it, or lead him to believe you know anything about late Adelaide James, the saint that she was,” Martha booms.
“How did you…?” I ask.
Martha smiles sadly, shaking her head. “You’re in her room. Though she never resided here. Mr. James made it clear her things were to be put in here as if she were still among us. A way for him to grieve in his own manly way, I suppose.”
“It’s like she’s going to walk through the door at any moment,” I whisper.
Martha dips her chin. “He’s not brain-addled, just very sad with no real closure.”
“I can understand that,” I whisper.
Though, I have no idea how he must feel, that doesn’t mean that I can’t sympathize with him. I can’t imagine losing my entire family, a husband and child. My sisters being missing doesn’t even compare, though my entire being aches about that knowledge, so I’m sure it’s a million times more intense for Colt.
“Your bath will be here shortly,” she announces, though not as curtly as I expect. She’s softened slightly toward me.
Clearing my throat, I lift my hand to stop her from leaving. She dips her chin in a short nod, a slight encouragement to continue. “How long ago was this?” I ask on a whisper.
Her brows snap together. “The war?” Nodding my head, I bite the inside of my cheek. Martha continues to frown, then decides to finally answer me. “It was about eight years ago.”
She doesn’t stay around to allow me to ask any more questions. Instead, she spins around and walks out of the room. A few moments later a tub is brought to me and she appears again to help me bathe.
Normally, taking a bath would be something that I do alone, but Martha has already seen everything that I have to offer and since I’m not sure how any of this stuff works or what soaps go where, I can use all the help that I can get.
COLT
Mrs. Whitecotton makes the announcement of her appearance in the only way possible for the woman that she is. I hear the front door slam against the wall as she pushes it open, then she rushes into my office, a flurry of wild gray hair and colorful fabrics.
“Mrs. Whitecotton,” I murmur as I stand and bow slightly in her direction.
“Colton James, I’ve known you since you were knee high to a grasshopper, you best get over here and give me some sugar,” she snaps.
Logan chuckles from his place across from my desk. Mrs. Whitecotton doesn’t miss a beat, her head moves to the side and she narrows her gaze on the man. “You best get over here too, boy. Lucky I don’t tell your mother you’re gallivanting around and you haven’t been to see her.”
“Sorry, Grandma,” Logan mutters as he rises.
We both give Mrs. Whitecotton a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Now then, that’s taken care of so let’s have a seat and none of this Mrs. Whitecotton stuff, you’ll call me Grandma and Florence.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Logan and I say in unison.
She dips her chin as she sinks down in the chair that Logan just vacated. He brings one of the chairs that’s in front of the small table we used for whiskey and poker last night and pulls it up next to her. They’re both sitting across from me, but I can’t focus on him at all. She is all that I see.
“Now that we’ve got all of that straightened out. Let’s talk about the prophecy.”
“You know?” I ask.
She nods her head. “I do. I was far too curious about why you would have me rush on over here. Especially, knowing how much I prefer to stay home. So, I meditated on that, asked the higher powers for guidance and the gods
