“Mine, too,” another boy said.
“My dad’s in the cavalry,” a little girl added.
Charlotte whispered to Ken, “Those kids probably know more Civil War history than most adults.”
Another little girl looked up at Ken. “Are you a general?”
He stood and doffed his hat. “Yes, ma’am. Major General Stephen Dodson Ramseur.”
“He got killed,” the first little boy said. “My dad said the general got two horses shot out from under him. Then he got killed riding the third. My dad said he was a sitting target.”
The group moved on, leaving Charlotte laughing and shaking her head. “Precocious kids.”
“Glad I don’t have any,” Ken said.
“Doesn’t the new woman in your life have a child?”
His grin tilted to one side. “And that’s why she’s no longer the new woman in my life.”
“If you rule out women with children, the dating field will get smaller and smaller, especially at your age.” She slapped her forehead. “Oh, silly me. Your field is ten years younger than mine.”
His grin was at odds with his hard, penetrating stare. “I haven’t seen you go out with a man who had children.”
She widened her eyes for emphasis. “Well, I might if I was asked. I like children. I want one of my own someday.”
He rolled his eyes, sighing. “You’re thirty-eight. Unless you’ve frozen eggs, it might not happen.”
“Well, thanks.” It wasn’t a topic she had ignored. In fact, she’d recently spoken to the chief of fertility at VMC about freezing her eggs, which she should have done ten years ago. She had decided to wait until the first of the year before scheduling egg retrieval. Then if her soul mate didn’t show up by the time she turned forty, she’d use donor sperm. She already had a list of physical, personality, and interest attributes, along with health and educational requirements.
“And don’t forget, I’ll be your ‘Mr. Goodsperm’ any day, merely say the word. After all, I’m your fallback guy.”
“I changed my mind since we had that discussion. You don’t fit my new requirements. You have red hair, you’re not an athlete, and you can’t sing a note.”
“At least you didn’t say little dick or some other derogatory identifier.”
“You call me skinny and flat-chested. I don’t fit on your list either.”
His eyes brightened, and he rubbed his hands gleefully. “But I can fatten you up and a plastic surgeon can add some nice big boobs.”
She took a hefty swig from her canteen then wiped drops of water from her lips with the back of her hand. “I don’t want boobs the size of the women you date. They’d get in my way when I operate.”
He straightened his double-breasted frock coat and reclaimed his valise. “They wouldn’t get in mine.”
She puffed out her cheeks then slowly expelled the air. “Go meet your troops. This conversation is degrading fast.”
“It always does.” He wiggled a pretend cigar while bobbing his eyebrows Groucho Marx-style. “I’ll see you at dinner unless you find someone interesting on the battlefield.”
She wiggled a pretend cigar in return and chuckled. “That’s not going to happen either.”
3
Battle of Cedar Creek, Virginia, Present Day
During a lull in the afternoon battle, she grabbed her haversack and canteen and settled in the shade of a tree to study the puzzle box, determined to unlock its secrets. She discovered two sliding parts in one end. When she moved one end piece, the opposite end moved slightly, unlocking a side panel and allowing a new piece to be shifted. The top partially unlocked. She closed it and started over by reversing her moves. On the sixth try, the top panel slid open. After a moment to savor her victory over the box, she opened the lid completely. “Wow.”
Inside was an antique brooch, which looked Celtic in design, with the bluest sapphire—as clear as ice—embedded in the center. She studied both sides of the brooch, awed by the intricate metalwork. It appeared older than jewelry designed in the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries. She wasn’t an expert, but her great-grandmother had been, and had given Charlotte several exquisite pieces. Since then she had developed an appreciation for antique jewelry.
She teased and stroked the brooch, tracing the design with her fingertip. For someone accustomed to saving lives by paying attention to intricate details, the hairline seam around the circumference of the stone was easy to spot. She knew it opened. But how? There had to be a clasp. She retrieved her MacGyver knife from her haversack and picked at the brooch until she found the problem. A tiny piece of the clasp had broken off. She used tweezers to pinch the silver tracery, and a cleverly constructed spring popped the top half of the sapphire open. She ran the tip of her finger over an inscription etched into the center of the stone. Hmm. Gaelic?
“Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an gaol ach’s ann le neart anama.”
As she stammered through the last word, a groundswell of heavy fog smelling oddly of peat gathered around her. She climbed to her feet and tried to jump out of the fog, but it followed her. A vortex formed and swirled up her legs, creating a funnel of dense air. She edged forward, then back, dodged left, then right, but she couldn’t shake off the fog. The funnel reached her chest and pressure squeezed from all sides.
The fog completely engulfed her until she couldn’t breathe. Nothing existed beyond the gray, cottony cloud surrounding her. The jackhammer beat of her heart was deafening, louder than the cannons, which had roared throughout the day. She had entered a maelstrom of chaos and its bitter taste of terror.
4
Battle of Cedar Creek, Virginia, October 1864
Muffled cannon fire, high-pitched screams, and clanging swords penetrated the fog. As the peat-scented mist thinned, the sounds of battle resurged in a clap of thunder.
Her head swam, and her heart raced in panic. A battle waged around her. “What the f—”
“Run,” a soldier yelled,
