Courage to Love (Flynn Family Saga) by Erica Graham Page B

faintly.  “Me too, sir.”
    He clapped Flynn on the shoulder.  “I’ve seen you shoot in target practice, son.  You’ll do fine.  Just pretend they’re a bunch of blue turkeys, and your family’s hungry.”
    Flynn’s smile broadened.  “Yes sir.”
    Evans moved on.
    The battle began at sunrise.  Cannon balls whined overhead.  Flynn just wanted to run and hide, but he held his ground.  When Evans gave the order, he fired, but the Union line continued to advance.  A young soldier in a dark blue uniform topped the rise.  Flynn’s finger squeezed the trigger on his rifle.  Blood blossomed on the boy’s chest.  He looked surprised, surprised and scared.
    “No!”  Flynn woke with a start.  He waited for Maggie to come and comfort him.
    And then, he remembered.
    Maggie was dead.
    Pain stabbed Flynn’s heart like a dagger.
    He sat for a long time, staring at nothing.  As soon as the sun rose, he broke camp and continued to ride east.
    The nightmares grew worse.  He dreamed of Camp Sumter.  He watched, helplessly, as Sam fell ill and grew weaker and weaker.  Corporal O’Malley handed him a small vial, and Flynn ran toward his friend, but his wooden leg dissolved beneath him.  He fell, spilling the precious medicine into the hot, dry desert sand.
    Flynn frowned.  That was wrong.  He had two good legs when he was a prisoner in Camp Sumter.
    The dream faded.  Then, it returned.  He dreamed that he was in the Hole.  He was cold and hungry.  His ribs ached with every breath, and rain dripped down the sides of the Hole, turning the floor into a foul mixture of mud and excrement.  He heard Maggie’s voice, calling to him, but he couldn’t climb out of the Hole.  The walls were too steep, too slippery.
    And he only had one leg.
    He woke with a start.
    The prairie grass hissed softly around him.
    Flynn shut his eyes.
    He heard laughter, and opened his eyes.
    Nick Vaughn stood over him, laughing, as if he knew something Flynn didn’t.
    Flynn drew his pistol and fired.
    The apparition vanished, and Flynn remembered.  He remembered that Nick Vaughn was dead.
    Maggie shot all of the Vaughns the night she rescued him.  His hand was shaking too badly to aim at all.  Only Flynn never told her, because he felt ashamed of his weakness.
    Flynn holstered his pistol.  His hands were shaking again, and he hated it.  He saddled Wakta and rode on.
    But he could hear Nick Vaughn behind him, laughing, knowing that he could never get away from him.
    Finally, he reached the cabin he had built with Alexander Ridgeton.  His stump throbbed, but he didn’t care.  He didn’t have any salve with him anyway.
    Maggie always carried it.
    Maggie.
    His chest ached, and he closed his eyes.
    He unsaddled Wakta and went into the cabin.
    A different kind of ghost haunted the place.  He remembered the winter he spent there with Maggie.  He remembered the delight on her face when she saw the books on the shelves he had built himself.  He remembered the feel of her body beneath his hands, the touch of her hands on his body.  He remembered the sound of her voice, the scent of her, lavender and soap.
    His eyes burned with tears he could not cry.
    He lay down on the mattress with his face to the wall.
    Outside, cannons began to fire on Matthews Hill.
    *  *  *
    Sam and Maggie took the train eastward to St. Jo.  Maggie sat at the window and watched the desert glide by.  She remembered each painful step.  She remembered the courage and persistence of the people she shepherded across the land.
    That night, Maggie dreamed of her parents’ death.
    “Give me that jug, Lucy!”  Her father’s voice was slurred.
    “I am not going to let you throw away our last chance at a better life!”  Lucy’s voice was shrill.
    “I need it, Lucy!  You know that!  I can’t sleep without it!”
    Maggie scrambled into the wagon just in time to see her mother hurl the jug of moonshine to the floor.  The liquor ran across the