Corporal Mae Stoker is no stranger to misery or surviving harsh conditions, especially after enlisting in the Union Army at the height of the American Civil War to avoid living with her aunt and uncle. But when she's wounded during the Battle of Lov...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
At the crack of a gunshot, Wolstan awoke with a start, drenched with sweat and trembling. His heart slammed against his ribs, and blood rushed in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. Vestiges of the haunting images of Andersonville flitted through his mind, tormenting him.
Muttering an expletive, he threw off his covers and sat on the edge of the bed. His chest heaved with anxious breaths. He rubbed both hands over his face and head before releasing a ragged, protracted sigh and walking to the washstand.
Moonlight spilled through his open windows, giving the floorboards in his path a silver luminescence. Years ago, he might have been tempted to try and capture the effect with paint and canvas. But tonight, all he wanted was to cleanse the sweat from his body and find a few moments of peaceful rest—if such a thing were even possible.
Grabbing the rag near the basin, Wolstan splashed water onto his face and chest and scrubbed, uncaring that his undergarments were soon saturated and water pooled on the floor at his feet.
Once finished, he slathered Mae's salve over the cuts and scrapes he'd reopened, welcoming the initial sting of it sinking into his raw flesh if only because it gave him something new to focus on.
Wolstan changed into dry underwear, mopped up the water on the floor, and then found himself standing before his easel. He stared at the unfinished painting of the Tennessee River he'd been working on before leaving for war.
He hadn't touched a paintbrush in two years, and the unfinished landscape held no appeal. But the need to paint called to him, promising the succor his bed proved incapable of granting thus far.
After lighting his bedside and desk lamps, he gathered his supply of watercolors and brushes, and grabbed several large sheets of parchment. Sitting at his desk, he sketched out the first scene that came to mind.
Several hours and paintings later, the pastel oranges and pinks of dawn were brightening the sky as Wolstan finished his portrait of Ames Donaldson.
He covered a yawn and leaned back in his chair to scrutinize his work. Rinsing his brush, he set it aside, pleased with his efforts. Then, finally, his attention fell on the three other paintings he'd finished and spread across the floor to dry.
Scenes of the harsh living conditions, brutality, and death were visible on every page. The images were an unflinching, graphic illustration of Wolstan's nightmares.
Whether he would ever show them to anyone or toss them in the fire, Wolstan hadn't decided. But he was sure of one thing.
For the first time since returning home, the hours he'd spent at his desk with brush in hand, he'd finally begun feeling like himself again. Instead of an imposter.
Now, if he could only find a way to make it last, he thought, exhaling a tired sigh as he stood and stretched.
Deciding to give sleep another try, he blew out his desk lamp and walked toward his bed. But he stopped at his window upon seeing Mae outside in her nightgown and robe, running toward the bathhouse.
