Chapter Six

A contented sigh escaped Rory's lips when she laid her daughter down in the cradle. Haven's dark blue eyes—a replica of Dawson's—closed in peaceful slumber. She tiptoed from the room, thinking about the sink full of dishes awaiting her. When she had finished drying the last plate, she wiped a sweaty brow with the same towel. Not yet ten in the morning and it's already sweltering.

Blowing a lock of hair from her forehead, she settled into a chair across from Isabelle. "How could I have forgotten how brutal summer can be?"

"I'm making bread this morning so the heat from the stove isn't helping."

"You must have risen early." Rory glanced toward the stove. "I peeked inside. Two loaves of bread and a cake."

"Thought it best to get it done before noon." Isabelle reached across the table and patted her sister's hand. "You didn't eat a bite at breakfast again."

"I'm not myself these days, and before you ask, I have no idea why."

"Let me pull the cake and bread from the oven and let's sit outside on the porch for a spell. What do you say?"

With a nod, Rory pushed the chair back, came to her feet and headed outside. "Don't have to ask me twice."

Isabelle joined her moments later and settled into a rocker beside her. "What is it, lass? You're a million miles away these days."

"Call it a gut feeling. There's no other way to explain it."

"About Dawson?"

Rory nodded. "Has the pain of separation ever threatened to steal your sanity?"

"Yes," Isabelle said without pause. "When we lost Jon Henry to pneumonia and James in the war."

Rory clutched her hand. "Forgive me, Isabelle. I'm so absorbed in self-pity these days I should have known better than to ask you that."

"There's nothing to forgive. I know the love you and Dawson share is fierce, your mantle heavy while he's off fighting." She paused. "Or whatever men call it when they're chasing the enemy across desolate terrain." Isabelle found her feet and as if clairvoyant, placed a hand over her brow and scanned the horizon.

Rory's heart plummeted. "What is it, what's wrong?"

Jon walked from the barn and looked down the long drive.

"Company," her sister whispered. "We aren't expecting anyone, and it's a bit early for neighbors to come calling."

Rory bounded to her feet when the riders reined in their mounts near the porch. Sweat trickled down the horses' withers. Brass eagle buttons glistened against their dark blue shirts. Rory tried to draw breath but someone had sucked the air from her lungs.

The officer looked from Isabelle to her, his tone somber. "Mrs. Finch, Mrs. Dawson Finch?"

The sky spun and far-off voices rang in her ears—Isabelle's, Jon's, and a stranger's. Staggering down the steps on wobbly legs, she reached for the document in his hand with trembling fingers. "I'm Mrs. Dawson Finch."

"Ma'am, it grieves me to deliver this letter from the army."

This cannot be happening. Did he say grieve? Rory opened the letter and scanned the first paragraph.

Dear Madame,

The army regrets to inform you, your husband, Sergeant Dawson Finch, has been listed as missing in action and presumed dead.

Time ceased to exist and a sound she didn't recognize escaped her throat. She sensed Isabelle standing beside her and dropped the letter into her hand. Then she turned her back on the soldiers and vomited.

Long minutes passed before a man cleared his throat. "Our deepest regrets Mrs. Finch. The superior officer states in his report heathens rode off with your husband's body." The voice paused. "We, that is, the army, failed to recover his remains."

Missing? Presumed dead? His body taken by heathens? No. No. No!

Gripped by unfathomable grief, Rory folded like a leaf and collapsed into the dirt at her feet.

* * *

Rory had no choice but to return to the home she once shared with Dawson. Aaron, her nephew, and her niece, Anne, accompanied her. Isabelle and Jon thought it best she not be alone until she adjusted to not having Dawson there.

Without conscious effort, she managed to get through the days—endless hours, teeming with anguish and tormented remembrances. Jon and Isabelle had pleaded with her to stay at least until winter had released its stronghold on the land but Rory was drawn by an invisible force to the quaint cabin in the woods she once shared with Dawson. There she could immerse herself in cherished memories, reminisce about the glorious days she walked beside the heart of her existence. She faced a different enemy these days, an unadulterated demon that threatened her sanity and base survival. She couldn't allow herself to venture down that pain-free road, couldn't muster the courage to end her meaningless life. Haven, the one, true testament of the impermeable love that bonded her soul to Dawson's deserved a life of happiness and unconditional love. Dawson would be the first to stand tall before her, finger wagging in her face, insisting . . . nay demanding, she emerge from her cesspit of despair and muster the strength and courage to carry on, possibly even love again for their daughter's sake.

This morning, after placing Haven in her cradle for her morning nap, she stood at the window in the bedchamber she shared with Dawson. Outside, the trees were awash in brilliant shades of amber, buttercup gold and nutmeg. Before long, they would tumble from their anchor of sturdy branches to be blown away by autumn winds or crushed beneath a sodden blanket of snow. The same cannot happen to me. I will not disappear like the morning mist or collapse under a yoke of agony. By all that is holy, I will not allow it to happen.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the trunk that held Dawson's clothes. With tentative steps she walked toward the imposing reminder of her misery and eased down to the floor. Lifting the lid, she brushed her fingers over a cotton shirt, infusing the air with the subtle aroma of her Dawson. She plucked the garment from its safe bed and held it under her nose. Tears streamed down her cheeks. If only she could bottle his distinct scent, tuck it into the pocket of her apron, hide it in a crease of her chemise and, when grief threatened to sever her at the knees, she'd pop the lid, close her eyes and will herself to take one more step, live one more day, until time lessened the debilitating misery.

The image of a uniformed officer floated before her, his words twisting her innards into knots. 'Our deepest regrets, Mrs. Finch. The superior officer states heathens rode off with your husband's body. The army failed to recover his remains.'

Dawson's shirt drifted from her limp hands into her lap. Missing? No body to bury? Dear God, couldn't you have at least given me closure?

Anne's voice broke through her reverie. "Rory, I made a pot of tea."

One thing she could thank God for was the support and presence of her niece and nephew right now. With gentle hands, she returned Dawson's shirt to the trunk and closed the lid, her heart splintering into a thousand shards of glass.

Entering the kitchen, she smiled at Anne. "Thanks for making tea, again. I'm not good for much these days."

Her niece angled into a chair across from her. "Nonsense. I'm observing and learning so much from you."

"Is that so? I don't know how you could learn anything from a person drowning in misery."

"That doesn't stop you from being a good mother."

Wrapping her hands around the warm cup of tea, Rory smiled. "Before long, you'll find that special man, have children of your own to cherish."

"Don't rush me." Anne chuckled. "I haven't learned that much."

Relishing memories of Dawson, Rory's mind wandered, only to be returned to the present again by an astute Anne. "What are you thinking? What's occupying your thoughts right now?"

"I was thinking about life, how it tramples on in a perpetual cycle. Regardless of joy or tragedy the sun comes up, day after day, year after year. In weak moments, I question my ability to face such an ugly future, but then I recall something he said to me once."

"You know you can share anything with me, Rory."

"For that I'm grateful." Rory smiled through a sigh. "Dawson once said, 'If something happens, I know I can count on you to raise our daughter to be independent, caring and strong.' At which point, I interrupted him and asked what he meant by something happening. I remember wondering at the time if he had a premonition because Lord knows, I had niggling fears he wouldn't return this time."

"You sensed something would happen to him?"

Rory nodded. "Looking back, yes. Second-sight doesn't tell us what will happen, but warns us our world will change if loved ones continue down the path they've chosen."

"You tried talking him out of going?"

"Orders are orders, Anne, and soldiers don't have a choice. I knew I couldn't prevent him from leaving but we did talk about the warnings, my fears."

"You think he might have sensed the same?"

With a shrug, Rory looked at her niece through unbidden tears. "He might have but couldn't do anything about it."

"Poor Dawson. Imagine how hard it must have been to ride away if he knew he might never return." Anne shifted and turned toward the open window. "Speaking of which, I think someone just rode in." She pushed away from the table, crossed the room and peered out the window. "Looks like Markham Potter."

Rory glanced at the ceiling. "Why today?"

"Want me to tell him you're not feeling well?"

"No, he'd just return tomorrow or the next day." Rory came to her feet. "Best find out what he wants."

Anne turned from the window and with a quirked brow, gave her aunt an amused grin. "We all know what he wants, what he's always wanted . . . you, Rory."

With a hand on her forehead and her eyes closed, Rory mouthed the words. "Best set him straight now then. Show him in, Anne."