Little Love Affair (Southern Romance Series, #1) Read online

  Little Love Affair

  Southern Romance Series, Volume 1

  Lexy Timms

  Published by Dark Shadow Publishing, 2015.

  Also by Lexy Timms

  Heart of the Battle Series

  Celtic Viking

  Celtic Rune

  Celtic Mann

  Saving Forever

  Saving Forever - Part 1

  Saving Forever - Part 2

  Saving Forever - Part 3

  Saving Forever - Part 4

  Saving Forever - Part 5

  Saving Forever - Part 6

  Southern Romance Series

  Little Love Affair

  The University of Gatica Series

  The Recruiting Trip

  Faster

  Higher

  Stronger

  Standalone

  Wash

  Loving Charity

  Summer Lovin'

  Love & College

  Billionaire Heart

  First Love

  Little Love Affair

  Southern Romance Series

  Book 1

  By

  Lexy Timms

  Copyright 2015 by Lexy Timms

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright 2015 by Lexy Timms

  Southern Romance Series

  Little Love Affair

  Book 1

  Siege of the Heart

  Book 2

  Freedom Forever

  Book 3

  Description

  Knox Township, August 1863.

  Sentiments are running high following the battle of Gettysburg, and although the draft has not yet come to Knox, “Bloody Knox” will claim lives the next year as citizens attempt to avoid the Union draft. Clara’s brother Solomon is missing, and Clara has been left to manage the family’s farm, caring for her mother and her younger sister, Cecelia.

  Meanwhile, wounded at the battle of Monterey Pass but still able to escape Union forces, Jasper and his friend Horace are lost and starving. Jasper wants to find his way back to the Confederacy, but feels honor-bound to bring Horace back to his family, though the man seems reluctant.

  Contents

  Southern Romance Series

  Description

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Southern Romance Series

  More by Lexy Timms:

  Celtic Viking Chapter 1

  Celtic Viking Chapter 2

  Celtic Viking Chapter 3

  COMING SOON:

  Southern Romance Series:

  Prologue

  His legs were close to giving out. Jasper gasped with effort. His friend’s arm dangled uselessly around the back of Jasper’s neck, and his feet stumbled over the roots and underbrush. His head lolled on Jasper’s shoulder, breath dragging into his lungs in gasps, and his skin was burning.

  Sweat trickled down Jasper’s forehead in the August heat. He had long ago unbuttoned his coat, heedless of manners, but it hardly made a difference. He was hauling a wounded soldier over rough terrain, and exertion plastered his shirt to his chest with sweat. He was so tired now that he did not even bother to swat away the flies that raised welts on his skin.

  “Wh-Where...” His friend’s voice came out reedy.

  “Just a little farther,” Jasper managed. It was all he had said for days now as Horace’s condition deteriorated and the man slipped ever further into delirium. He did not tell Horace his own strength was fading, and that he had not eaten in far too long. He did not share the terror which kept him awake at night.

  Even here in the forests, far gone from the battlefields, the war followed them in the stink of Horace’s wound, in the raving words he spoke to the darkness, “Let me go. Let me die.”

  “Just a little farther,” Jasper would plead with him.

  “I failed them,” Horace whispered.

  Jasper knelt between the trees and prayed as his friend slept: for the wound to heal, for water the next day, for what food they could scavenge, for safety in these northern woods. It was a circuitous path they took, skirting forests and fields, and the delay was killing Horace.

  Gagging caught his attention. Jasper thudded to the ground, his knees buckling as Horace retched. All of the water he had managed to get the man to drink an hour ago was gone and Horace’s face had gone a waxy color.

  “Horace. Stay with me.”

  But the man’s head lolled to the side. His breath wheezed faintly in his lungs. Pus seeped from the dressing at his shoulder.

  Jasper looked around desperately. If he could only get Horace home...

  If Japser waited for that, Horace would die. Japser’s eyes caught a ruined little cottage through the trees, tumbling-down walls and a half roof dappled with shadows by the forest canopy. Tracing down the hill, he caught the glint of wheat fields. There was nothing for it now. He was half-dead himself. He would take his courage in his hands, hide his coat and bury his pride, and he would ask for the medicine and food they needed.

  He slipped his arm under Horace’s shoulders and hauled himself upright, the man’s body held in shaking arms. Only a few steps more.

  “Hold on,” Jasper whispered to his friend. “Just a few more minutes. Just hold on a little longer.”

  Chapter 1

  Her own sobs echoed in her ears as Clara ran, dress snagging on brambles and her blonde hair straggling out of its bun to tumble down her back. She could hardly breathe for the stitch in her side and her feet were aching, but she could not stop running. The cliff was ahead, a promise of wind and birdsong away from the oppressive August heat. A place where she could be alone, where she could let her sadness pour out of her without scaring Cecelia, without sparking her mother’s own quiet grief.

  She stumbled onto the ledge, eyes closed with exhaustion, and felt the bite of granite on her palms, her knees. Her breath was dragging into her lungs, the bodice of her dress constricting painfully, and her legs were shaking. Would she be able to get back up? She almost did not care. Trying to steady herself, she looked up at last, and felt something release deep in her chest.

  The vista spread before her was like nothing else in the world: great trees dwarfed by the massive swells of the land, the scent of wildflowers on the breeze and the shadows of clouds scudding across the earth. God’s creation in all its glory, reminding Cl
ara how much remained of the world she had once believed in.

  And yet, looking out at the sea of green, with the rush of the river below in her ears, she could feel tears streaming down her cheeks. Solomon had brought her here even when she was too little to make the climb himself, carrying her on his back, and she had thought him the bravest, wisest, strongest older brother a girl could have. A brother who would never, ever leave her.

  A sob burst out of her, a whimper even her bit lip and clenched hands could not keep in. It was childish to be so undone by this, when Knox Township was full of women who carried on with their heads held high, young children in their arms. Everyone had lost someone. Every family had buried a son, or a father, or cousin—and the rest of them carried on with dignity, even if their eyes were shadowed with pain.

  Even at home, Cecelia wept softly sometimes at night, and their mother had taken to staring into the fire at night without words, as if her soul had fled her body. But come daylight, they swallowed their grief and went on as if...as if everything was moving on, with or without Solomon. As if they had managed to accept that they might never know what had happened to him, whether he was alive or dead, whether he was a prisoner, whether he would ever come home. As if not knowing did not destroy them.

  On the days when it overwhelmed her, when Clara was driven up into the forest to hide away and cry, washing her face in the stream before she returned home, what she envied most was the uncomplicated nature of her family’s sadness. For their mother, it was the loss of a child. For Cecelia, it was Confederate treachery and the loss of a brother who had been kind, who had been dependable. When had Solomon ever disappointed them? Never.

  However, he had disappointed Clara. He had brought her to this overlook before he left, grave and quiet, and he had taken both of her hands in his and made her promise that she would look after them.

  “The farm’s the most important thing,” he said gravely. “It’ll keep our family forever if we can make it strong again, you and I.”

  “You’re not afraid to leave it all to your little sister?” she had asked mischievously, trying to lighten his mood, but his fingers only tightened around hers.

  “You’re stronger than you know.” He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “And clever, and brave.” He drew a deep breath. “Sometimes, I think, too independent for your own good. You know you don’t have to run the farm alone while I’m gone.”

  “Solomon...” She had known where this was going.

  “Cyrus would make a good husband,” Solomon said fiercely. His face always softened when he spoke of his friend, and she knew the look of hope in his eyes. Cyrus was a good man, successful, and for Solomon, it was the perfect solution: his little sister married to a good man, a trusted friend. He would never force her, but he hoped. “I’ve spoken to him.”

  “You didn’t!” She wanted to melt through the stone. “Oh, Solomon...”

  “Just to ask him to look after you while I’m gone. I don’t want to leave you without seeing you settled.”

  “I am settled,” she said simply. “I’m only nineteen, Sol. I have Cee, and Mother. You’ll come back to us soon, won’t you?”

  “I can’t promise that.” His face was anguished. “You know I can’t. Cyrus would be kind to you, and where there is kindness, love may grow. Clara,” he said and sighed. “Think on it.”

  “I will,” she said because it was the only thing that would make his fear go away, and because his smile of relief was like dawn breaking. She wrapped her arms around her brother’s shoulders and held tight. “Promise me you’ll come back, Solomon.”

  “I promise,” he told her, words stirring her hair.

  But he hadn’t.

  One shouldn’t speak ill of the lost, Clara knew that, and when she thought of her brother cut down at twenty-five, it was all she could do to keep herself from losing herself in memory, just to avoid the present. It was beyond foolish to keep hoping. It had been months. No word was as good as any letter now.

  She couldn’t forgive him for leaving her, and she couldn’t even believe he was gone. Her heart was a tumble of contradictions. The tears were drying on her cheeks. When they had stopped, she did not know, but she must return to her work. She looked down at her hands, where she was still clutching a bridle in one hand. She had been going to the stable to saddle Solomon’s horse, Beauty, and take her into town for supplies.

  Supplies they could ill afford. Every month, it seemed, there was another crisis, and Clara felt hope slipping further away. She took her mother’s advice, she balanced the books, and she planted the crops as her father had taught her. It wasn’t her fault, she knew. The harvest two years ago had given less than it should, and they had never recouped the cost. However, it seemed nothing she did helped at all.

  Well, sitting here crying certainly wasn’t going to help. She was just standing to dust off the front of her dress when she heard the scream.

  Cecelia. It could only be her.

  Clara hiked up her skirts and ran, steadying herself on the tree trunks as she careened downhill towards the fields. No matter how many times she told Cecelia to stay in the house, to keep away from the forest, her sister never listened. You go into the woods all the time!

  And now it had happened: for all the times Clara had feared that they might find soldiers in their woods, or refugees, or mercenaries but found nothing, now something had happened at last. Her heart was pounding with fear. Cecelia had not screamed again—was she safe now, or had the scream been her last?

  She could not lose her sister too. Clara burst into the clearing at the edge of the fields, looking desperately around herself at the shoulder-high wheat. There. A disturbance, her sister’s pale-brown hair and the flash of red as Cecelia ran for the farmhouse.

  She wanted to call her sister’s name in relief, but if someone was chasing her, it would be best not to tip her hand now. Surprise was all she had and, Clara thought wryly as she looked down, the bridle in her hand. Well, it was something. Ducking down, she forged into the field and began to run as quietly as she could, hoping that no pursuers would see the way the wheat rustled around her.

  She heard Cecelia a moment before they collided and clapped her hand over the girl’s mouth to stifle a scream. “It’s me! Cecelia, it’s me.”

  “Clara!” Cecelia clung to her, eyes wide and scared.

  “Keep running,” Clara whispered. She grabbed her sister’s hand and pulled her along, casting an anxious glance over her shoulder. She could hear nothing but the wind and the birdsong, but her heartbeat was pounding. “What happened?”

  “I saw a man.” Cecelia’s bottom lip was beginning to tremble. She stumbled and pushed herself up. “He was walking in the woods, Clara. I think there was another one. He saw me and he waved. He was going to come after me. I can’t... please, I can’t run anymore.”

  Clara looked over at her sister, trying not to gasp for breath herself. This was one of the times Solomon had warned her about: when she would need to smile so other people would smile, be strong so that they would be strong. Even with her hair coming down out of its bun and a smear of dirt on her cheek, Cecelia was beautiful.

  She was a target.

  The crashing sound in the wheat behind them let them know that they weren’t out of danger yet.

  “Go!” Clara pushed her sister forward.

  “What about you?”

  “Go! I’m just going to trip him. I’ll be right behind you.”

  If only she felt as confident as she wanted to. Her heart was pounding, and Clara very much wanted to be sick. She braced herself, taking a deep breath and gripping the leather of the bridle to swing. The bits were metal, at least something to cause a little bit of pain. Something to give her time to run.

  A look over her should showed her that Cecelia had left. She took a deep, shuddering breath. One thing less to worry about. All she had to do was keep this man from catching up.

  What about her?

  Best not to think abo
ut that now. Clara squared her shoulders. A lout, a drifter, a soldier on a horse. She was ready for anything.

  Anything, of course, except the man who came falling out of the wheat behind her. Dark-haired and strong-nosed, dangerously thin and still one of the most handsome men she had ever seen in her life.

  Chapter 2

  The man skidded to a halt when he saw her. The beard on his face suggested he had not been able to bathe for days and the smell, unfortunately, confirmed it. He was in a shocking state of disarray. His coat missing entirely, and his shirt was torn open, showing the dark hair across his chest.

  Clara directed her eyes back to his hastily, hoping she was not blushing. “Who are you?” She brandished the bridle and to her surprise, he did not laugh.

  He stopped, holding his hands up, his dark brown eyes pleading, and Clara clenched her hands to keep herself from smiling reassuringly. This man had threatened her sister. He was not to be trusted. And yet, when he stopped uncertainly, ducking his head in an awkward greeting, she found her bobbing her head back, as if she wasn’t holding a bridle out in front of her like a weapon.

  Hello, trembled on Clara’s lips. For a moment, everything seemed right with the world. Just a misunderstanding. A lost man. Then, when she did not speak, he cleared his throat.

  “I’m...” He shook his head, as if that wasn’t how he wanted to begin. “I beg your pardon, miss.”

  It was the accent that gave him away. His voice was pleasing, smooth and low, but nothing could hide the slow drawl of his words: the softened sound as he tried to say pardon, mimicking northern speech.

  Clara’s mouth fell open and she backed away, shaking her head. Southern. He was southern. And that was why his coat was missing, wasn’t it? Two Confederate soldiers, moving north and—

  What? Hunting Yankee women, as the men in town claimed?

  “You stay away,” Clara said fiercely. She backed away, shaking her head, eyes wide. “You stay away from my family.”