Free Mischief and Magnolias by Marie Patrick Page B

perished in the blood-soaked mud, the smell of copper invading his nose as he too lay in the mud, his leg twisted beneath the weight of Soldier Boy’s heavy body.
    He opened his eyes, took another breath and let it out slowly, then did it again. After a few moments of deep breathing, he managed to still the images flashing before his eyes.
    Towel wrapped around his waist, he limped into the bedroom and finished drying himself, mindful of the scar throbbing in his thigh.
    He inspected the puckered skin and sighed. Ugly and swollen, the jagged line pulsed as if it had a life of its own, and yet he remained grateful to still have his leg. He could walk, despite the pain, and still breathed when so many others did not.
    It had been close though. The surgeons at the makeshift field hospital had wanted to take his leg, declaring the bone protruding from his thigh too damaged to ever support his weight again. He remembered begging the doctor holding the saw in his hand, bargaining with him, promising him the moon and the stars and every cent of his worth if he would put the saw down. He’d made promises to God, too, and whoever else would listen. When infection set into the wound, it had nearly killed him. If it wasn’t for the timely intervention of General Sumner, Jock, and his father, he wouldn’t be here now. They had kept a vigil, the three of them taking turns feeding him broth, keeping him clean and cool, and urging him to fight to survive.
    Coming so close to losing his life had changed him in so many ways. Accused of being arrogant and self-centered in the past, he now chose the other road, and though sometimes it was hard, he tried to remain kind, tried to see humor where little existed, tried to take the feelings of others into consideration when he made decisions.
    With effort, Remy pushed the memories from his mind, except for his promise to learn the identity of the traitorous bastard who’d betrayed them to the enemy.
    He dressed in his uniform then brushed his hair back from his forehead. He didn’t inspect his reflection in the mirror, afraid the visions might assault him once more.
    Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his boots closer. A slight smile crossed his face as he inspected the shine. Shaelyn Cavanaugh may resent him for being here, her attitude described as prickly at best, but he certainly couldn’t find fault in the high gloss on his boots.
    He slipped his left foot into the boot. His smile disappeared as the oddest feeling came over him. Something wasn’t right. His foot, encased in a heavy wool sock, had become wet, his toes sliding against each other as he wiggled them.
    He removed his boot and inspected the sock. Thick, dark-brown syrup coated his sock and plopped to the floor one sticky drop at a time.
    Molasses!
    He should have been angry, should have raised the roof with the sounds of his displeasure, but none of that happened. As he studied the sock dripping molasses, a rumble of laughter rose from his chest. He couldn’t help it. Vinegar in his coffee, cold baths, now molasses in his boots. What would the feisty, spirited woman think of next?
    He almost couldn’t wait to find out.
    Exchanging his molasses-covered sock for a fresh pair from the drawer, he finished the last of the coffee Shaelyn had brought him earlier—stone cold but vinegar free—then padded down the stairs in his stocking feet, boots in hand, and sought out the vixen who dared so much.
    Remy strolled through the dining room and noticed the table had been set. Warming trays were on the sideboard, one already filled with grits, another with cornbread, a third with small link sausages perfectly browned.
    Daniel was the only officer already at the table, uniform clean and pressed, pen in hand, paper spread out before him. He looked up from his correspondence and took a sip of coffee. An eyebrow rose and a grin created dimples in his cheeks as his gaze landed on Remy’s sock-clad feet and the boots in his