“YOU REALIZE IT has been weeks with no word.” Pacing the floor, cell phone gripped in his hand, Jamie rubbed his forehead with his other, his voice low and lethal as he spoke to the FBI agent on the other line. “No, she would not have left me. She couldn’t leave the room without losing her breath. She would never have made it out of the house, let alone far enough away for me not to find her!”

“Jamie?”

Turning to find Emma standing in the doorway of the library, a frown on her face, he raised his finger and watched while she crossed her arms and leaned against the frame.

“Yes, fine.” Jamie snapped his cell phone shut.

“What did they say?”

Bracing his hands behind him as he leaned on the desk, he let out a growl. “What they always say. A whole lot of nothing.”

Emma moved further into the room. Her hand reached for him but dropped quickly at his deflection. Jamie didn’t want to be comforted. He wanted his wife back.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Not your fault, Squirt.” The peal of the doorbell interrupted any further conversation, and Jamie made his way to the door.

“Hi, Jamie,” Kelly said from the porch.

“Hi. What are you doing here?” He stepped aside. “Come in.”

“Thanks. Is Emma here?”

“I’m here,” Emma called as she made her way into the foyer. “Sorry, Jamie, I told Kelly to stop by.”

Jamie nodded but didn’t comment as the nurse stepped inside.

“I wanted to introduce you to one of our grief counselors. She should be here any minute.” Kelly hugged Emma.

“We don’t need grief counseling, Kelly,” Jamie said.

“I asked her to come, Jamie.” Emma dropped her head, face red.

He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I think it might help.”

Before he could argue, another knock sounded on the door, and Jamie was forced to put aside his opinions. He opened the door, and a tall woman, with dark auburn hair swept up into a simple chignon, lifted her chin as she held her hand out to Jamie. “Bonjour. You must be James. My name is Bernadette.” Her deep-set blue eyes shone kind and bright.

She spoke with a strong French accent, her voice deeper than expected for a woman. Jamie smiled. The only person who called him James was Sophie—when she was angry with him. “Please come in.”

“Merci.”

“Also, please, call me Jamie. Nice to meet you.” Jamie shook her hand, his eyes drawn to Emma, who appeared contrite. Bernadette’s warm, firm grip pulled his focus back to her.

“Jamie. I am here to help.”

“Thank you,” he said gruffly.

Despite his reservations, Jamie forced himself to sit with the women and, if it were just for Emma, talk about Sophie’s disappearance and feign acceptance for her absence. It was ridiculous, but Jamie tried to nod at all the right times and appear to be grateful for their interference. He tried to keep his relief hidden when his phone rang, and he excused himself to take the call.

Sequestering himself in the library, he took another call from the authorities, all the while trying not to punch his fist into a wall. Slamming the phone down, he dropped his face into his hands.

“Jamie?”

Raising his head, he forced a smile. “Sorry, the FBI was returning my call. Are the ladies still here?”

“No, they left almost an hour ago. I tried to find you...”

“Sorry,” he interrupted.

Emma snorted. “Right. You were hiding, admit it.”

“I admit nothing.” Jamie smiled.

She raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t on the line with the FBI this entire time, were you?”

Jamie shook his head. “No, only part of the time. A courtesy call from the man who’s been put in charge. He’s investigating a few other disappearances.”

“Like Sophie’s?”

Jamie nodded but didn’t want to elaborate. “You’re all dressed up. Are you going out again?”

Emma slid her hands down her hips, across tight-fitting jeans. “Yeah, Hannah and I are going to check out a new club in the Pearl.”

“Do you think that’s wise? It’s the third time this week.”

“Um, hel-loh, you’re not my father, and it’s not like you’re in the frame of mind to be good company”—and then—“Oh, Jamie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Jamie gave her a sad smile. “I know, Emma. We’re all under stress. Just be careful, okay? Call me if you need me to pick you up.”

“We’ll take a cab, but thanks.”

Jamie walked her to the door before returning to the library and grabbing a glass and a bottle of Patrón Silver. He climbed the stairs and headed towards his bedroom at the end of the hall, unchanged since Sophie’s disappearance.

Stalling at the threshold, eyes scanning the familiar scene, he forced himself to walk inside and inch toward the antique sleigh bed. He set his glass and bottle on the nightstand, and scratched at his beard as he stared into space. Hitting play on his iPod, he lowered himself onto the mattress and buried his face in the soft down of Sophie’s pillow. The familiar scent of peach, apricot, and sandalwood, the one distinctively Sophie, invaded his senses as he hugged it to his chest and reverently ran his hands over the satin pillowcase. “I miss you, sweetheart.”

An hour and six shots of Tequila later, he stumbled to his closet, wanting to hold something else that smelled like Sophie. He yanked the door open, his seventh drink teetering dangerously at the rim, and watched in horror as Sophie’s wedding dress slipped from its hanger and pooled onto the floor. He swore.

“Sophie’s gonna kill me.” Then, a pathetic laugh, followed by a scowl and the sound of glass shattering against the wall. He stared down at his empty hand, registering he’d thrown the tumbler.

Wiping the splash of liquor from his hands, Jamie reached inside the closet and lifted Sophie’s wedding gown from the floor. He fumbled with the hanger in an attempt to get everything put back together. Eyeing his own wedding attire, he reached for it. He held the Union Army uniform at arm’s length, her gown forgotten. In homage to his wife’s obsession with the War Between the States and her unwavering attention to detail, Jamie had made sure it was period correct to every last element.

Because of Sophie’s love of horses, Jamie learned to ride soon after they met. As a surprise for their wedding, he chose to have this cavalry officer’s uniform made and relied on Alex to help make it authentic. To this day, he didn’t know what Alex said, or did, so that Sophie never caught wind of his plans, but it worked.

Pulling the light blue pants on, he smoothed the yellow stripe down the side, surprised they still fit. His unstable fingers fumbled with the buttons and a growl escaped. “A zipper would have been better,” he slurred into the air.

He grasped the silken rope around his neck that held Sophie’s engagement ring, anniversary band and a New Zealand bone carving Hannah had given him for his birthday one year, and slipped it into his undershirt. He’d found Sophie’s rings the night she’d disappeared, but there was no sign of her wedding band. He took a modicum of comfort knowing that wherever she was, she still wore it, along with the ring that matched his.

His Civil War shirt, although in the style of a nineteenth-century army shirt, was better made and much more comfortable, but the jacket was authentic. Dark blue wool, with nine brass buttons in equal distance down the breastplate. Alex had found antique shoulder boards for a 1^st Lieutenant and added them as a little joke.

Jamie asked her at the time why she didn’t make him a captain, and Alex had laughed. “Because you don’t ride well enough to be a captain.”

Buttoning the jacket as he sang along to their favorite Tonic song, Jamie could barely hold back the desperation as he forced memories aside and tried to forget – just for a day. He stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror. Satisfied with his appearance, he grabbed his cavalry hat, the tequila bottle from the nightstand, and stumbled down the stairs and into the library.

He froze. “What the—?”

Turning around, he stared at the railing of his staircase, but when he turned back to the library, he gazed upon a vast field, hazy with smoke, and the smell of gunpowder overwhelming. No hint of Sophie’s beloved library remained.

Before he could make sense of anything, excruciating pain spread through his side and then, blackness.

* * *

“Sir? Sir? Can you hear me?” Amelia Powell frantically whispered. “Oh, please, please wake up.” She turned toward the house, and called out, “Daddy, come quick, there’s a soldier out here.”

“Amelia, there’s been no fighting around here, how can there be a soldier on the field?” a deep voice bellowed from a distance away.

She let out a quiet huff before calling back, “I understand that, Daddy. Nevertheless, there is a soldier lying here and he’s bleeding.” Amelia turned back to the soldier and tried tapping his cheek again. “Sir. Please wake up.”

His eyelids fluttered open and Amelia was taken aback by the dark blue orbs staring at her in confusion. He squeezed his eyes shut again briefly and then grimaced.

“Don’t try to move, sir. You appear to have been shot. My father is coming to help. If you would just lie still.” He groaned and moved his hand away from his side. Amelia pushed it back. “You need to keep pressure there. Can you tell me your name?”

He licked his lips and frowned. “James.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Uh...” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Amelia raised her head at the sound of her father’s heavy footsteps. “Meely, run and get David and John. We’re gonna need to get him into the barn.”

“The barn, Daddy? He’s a Union soldier. I think we should offer him refuge in the house.”

Her father knelt beside James and studied him briefly. “All right, Meely. We’ll take him into the house. Now, go fetch David and John.”

“Yes, sir.” Amelia picked up her skirts and ran for the fields.

There weren’t many men left to work their dairy farm. Anyone healthy and willing was fighting, but the Powell’s had been lucky enough to gain loyalty from a few of the slaves that Amelia’s father had freed years ago.

Many wealthy landowners had begun to free their slaves, but it took a while for her father to agree—truth be told, it took a while for her mother to agree, which in turn, influenced her father’s decision. But her brother, Samuel, had been right and her father finally saw the wisdom in his suggestion.

Two of the men chose to stay and work the farm, even after many of the others had joined the Union. Amelia had suspected her brother may have offered them a financial incentive to stay on, but she doubted she would ever know for sure.

She caught sight of them moving the herd from the lower pasture. David was larger than life with an easy manner and quick sense of humor. He stood at least a foot taller than Amelia and had scared her when he’d first come to the farm. That all changed after he’d risked his life to save her from a nasty run-in with an angry bull when she was nine, and now she viewed him as her own personal protector.

John had been raised on the Powell farm, and he and Amelia had played as children. He was two years her senior and as Amelia blossomed into a beautiful young woman, her mother forced him to keep his distance. Amelia had defied her at every chance. She considered John one of her very closest friends, and she’d been his shoulder to cry on when the girl he’d loved had been forced to follow her family after they were freed. Amelia had secretly taught him to read and write, something her mother would have surely stopped if she’d ever found out.

“David, John, come quick. There’s a wounded soldier up near the house. Daddy needs him brought inside.”

John waved back and the two men came running. David removed his hat and gave Amelia a warm smile. “Where’s he at, missus?”

“In the back paddock, just past the garden.”

Amelia led them to where her father knelt over James. It appeared he was speaking to him, but Amelia couldn’t figure out if the soldier was answering.

Mr. Powell raised his head. “Oh, good. Move him into the south guestroom upstairs, and then one of you go for the doctor.”

“Yessuh,” David responded. He and John picked him up and did as they were instructed.

Amelia followed them inside and heard the sputtering of her mother from behind David. “What do you think you’re doing with that man?”

“Mama, he’s a wounded soldier. Daddy told them to take him up to the south room.”

“Oh, for goodness sake.” Her mother waved her hands towards the stairs. “Make it quick, then.”

“Yes’m,” they mumbled and hurried up the stairs.

When Amelia tried to follow, her mother grabbed her arm. “You will not be alone with them.”

“Mama, he needs help.”

“Young lady, you’re barely sixteen. You may not go into a room alone with a man and two Negroes. What would people think?”

Amelia wanted to scream. “That I’m a good Samaritan, and willing to help a soldier who has obviously put his life on the line for our Union.”

Her mother huffed. “Well, you’ll wait until the doctor has seen him and then you’ll let Della tend to him. John may assist... he is her son after all.”

Amelia lowered her head. “Yes, Mama.”