Her Rebel Heart. Shannon Farrington

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       She had known Samuel Ward since she was a child. Their families had attended the same church. When his parents had died of typhoid fever when he was but sixteen, he’d practically become a member of their family. Mother doted on him. Father took pride in his accomplishments. Edward treated him like a brother. And she…she fell in love with him. The time he’d spent away from Baltimore, continuing his studies at the teachers’ college in Philadelphia, had been almost unbearable. She’d felt that she couldn’t wait for him to come back to her, so they could begin their life together.

       He was the quiet, steady type, far different from her outspoken, impulsive nature. As different as he was though, he completed her. And, up until last night, she could not imagine life without him.

       The knot in the pit of her stomach tightened. She turned from the window and moved to the stove. She had responsibilities, none of which included watching him.

      I am right to break the engagement. I thought I knew him but clearly I did not.

       A pot of chicken soup was waiting to be heated. Julia planned to take a bowl up to her mother. She knew it would make her feel better.

       She stirred the cold mixture then moved to the counter. She punched down a mound of rising dough then kneaded it carefully. She could hear the chop, chop, chop of Samuel’s ax. She tried to ignore it. She slipped the dough into a waiting pan.

       A few minutes later, the back door opened with a creak. Julia resisted the urge to turn around. She busied herself by wiping the flour from the table. She then washed her hands. From the corner of her eye she watched him.

       Samuel carried in the wood for the kindling box. He quietly loaded the crate then moved to the stove. Julia started to object, ready to say she could light the fire herself. She turned to face him fully. Just one glimpse of his brown eyes brought a lump to her throat.

      I promised to love him, she thought. I promised him forever.

       She backed away and Samuel’s attention returned to the stove. He stuffed it with kindling and day-old copies of the local newspaper, The Baltimore Sun. He struck a match. The fire ignited and he then turned back to face her.

       The lump in her throat grew bigger. Thank you, she knew she should say, instead out came, “Why are you here?”

       Her words were sharp and accusatory but Samuel did not flinch. He simply looked at her, his eyes melting her hard stance.

       “I think you know why,” was all he said.

       She swallowed hard and watched as he closed the burner lid then went to the pump to wash his hands. Julia held her breath, her emotions drifting through anger and remorse, respect and disdain.

       Samuel dried his hands and rolled down his shirtsleeves. When he turned toward her she quickly busied herself at the table with another pile of dough.

       “Julia, we need to talk.”

       She punched down the soft, sticky mound. “What is there to discuss? Did I not make it clear that I wish to sever our engagement?”

       “You made that perfectly clear last night.”

      Last night. Pain gripped her heart. Just thinking of Edward’s departure, of the arguing that had taken place, brought tears to her eyes.

       “Then you understand,” she said.

       “I understand that you are upset,” he said, “and rightfully so. You are worried about your brother.” He paused. “For some reason you are taking it out on me.”

       Her spine stiffened. She turned and glared at him. “Some reason?”

       “Julia, I have nothing to do with the soldiers occupying the city or with Edward’s enlistment.”

       “That’s right. You don’t. You haven’t done a thing to stop it. You abandoned Edward and the rest of the volunteers when they needed your help.”

       “What is it that you wish me to do?” he asked. “Shall I ride to Virginia tonight and join Edward? Would a saber and an officer’s commission truly make you happy?”

       Emotions tore through her. If he joined Edward, then yes, she believed she would have a measure of peace. Samuel could look after him. But experience told her otherwise.

      He cannot be trusted. He is not a man of his word.

       “It is far too late for that, Samuel,” she said. She was doing her best to keep her voice steady, in control. It would do no good to argue with him. She had already said everything that needed to be said. He had made his decision. She had made hers.

       Sam watched her in silence for a few moments. Her face showed fatigue. More than likely she had slept just as little as he. He imagined that after his departure she had spent the long night pleading with Edward not to go south.

       Even still, she was beautiful. Her dark curls had escaped her bun. Much of her hair now hung long and loose about her shoulders. Sam had rarely seen it that way. He liked it.

       His eyes drifted to her unadorned left hand. He wondered what she had done with his engagement ring. Last night she had ripped it from her hand and held it out to him.

       He had refused to take it back.

      Look at me, Julia.

       Seconds passed. He knew she could feel the weight of his gaze. Finally, she spoke.

       “If you will excuse me, Samuel. I have work to tend to.”

       He drew in a shallow breath, knowing he had a decision to make. He could argue. He could refuse to leave. He could force her to turn around.

      But when a lady makes a request, a gentleman will oblige her.

       Walking out of the kitchen was one of the hardest things he had ever done. He wanted to take her in his arms, to set things right. He wanted to convince her that her anger toward him was pointless. He loved her. She loved him. He could see it in her eyes.

       But Julia Marie Stanton was a stubborn woman. No amount of convincing could change her mind. She would have to do that for herself.

       He was determined to wait until she did.

       And in that time spent waiting, he’d pray that she would one day see things from his perspective.

       He walked back to the lean-to. He placed the ax on the shelf then gathered up his outer clothing. Rather than return to the house by way of the kitchen, he entered through the garden door.

       Dr. Stanton was still in the study. His spectacles were perched upon his nose, medical book still in his hands. He looked up.

       “Thank you, son. Will you stay for supper?”

       The offer was tempting. Goodness knows he wanted to. Even apart from his longing to stay with Julia, there was also the comfort to be found in time spent with Dr. and Mrs. Stanton. The prospect of returning to his lonely, cheerless home held little appeal in comparison.

       But he had caused enough tension in the house already.

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