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  Breathe Again

  A Novel

  By

  B.C. YANCEY

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and events either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, and events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This novel may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without the written permission of the author. Making or distributing electronic or printed copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could be subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Copyright © 2016 by B.C. Yancey

  All rights reserved

  One

  Early summer, 1867

  Dense forest surrounded Sterling Hawkins as a thick mist crept along the mountain valley. It was a strange sight to behold because it slithered over the ground and moved almost like it was a living breathing thing, caressing each tree it swirled around before flowing to the next.

  Billowing gray clouds rolled overhead, blotting out the midday sun until it became nothing more than a hazy circle of light. For the better part of the day, Sterling had been trailing a bull elk and finally had a clear shot. The overcast sky seemed oddly bright as he sighted along his rifle, preparing to shoot.

  It became a memorable scene quickly emblazoned within his memory because when he moved to squeeze the trigger, there came the unmistakably pungent and acrid smell of burning wood.

  The elk picked up the scent as well and bolted through the trees, further into the forest and out of Sterling's view. Grumbling under his breath at losing the meat the elk would have provided, he whistled for Fancy his chestnut mare, fastened his rifle to the saddle, and mounted.

  After watching the mist a few moments longer, he realized it was not mist at all. It was smoke. In growing concern, he noted the direction it was creeping from and spurred Fancy in search of the source.

  Exiting the valley, he scanned the area. A column of thick, black smoke poured into the sky from the direction of the Griggs' home a quarter-mile away. Gasping a curse, he kicked Fancy into a gallop. Terror gripped him. Please don't let them be the source of the fire, he silently pleaded.

  His heart pounded, matching the rapid staccato of Fancy's hoofs as she galloped across the dirt road. When the trees thinned enough for him to catch sight of the flicker of bright orange flames, he cursed louder and spurred Fancy to a faster gait.

  Within the next few minutes, it became clear he wouldn't make it in time. The smoke billowed from most of the lower windows and a few of the upper story. Fire licked hungrily at the white two-story clapboard home, burning the most intensely at the back where he knew the kitchen to be. Had Dottie and Louisa made it to safety? What if they were trapped inside?

  Reining Fancy to a halt, he threw himself from the saddle, yelling, "Dottie! Louisa!"

  His stomach clenched, nearly doubling him over from the panic pumping through his veins. Dottie had to be all right. He could not lose her, not when he hadn't been able to gain her forgiveness.

  Sterling pulled his shirt up and over his mouth, running to the West side of the house in search of Dottie and her mother. The smoke choked him the closer he drew to what used to be the kitchen window, but which now resembled a portal to hell.

  "Dottie!" His voice broke; the howling of the fire grew so intense he could hardly hear himself. He coughed and gasped for air before yelling, "Louisa!"

  Only the roar of the fire answered him.

  Swearing under his breath, he ran to the other side of the house and found Louisa, Dottie's mother, covered in soot and doubled over on her hands and knees, gasping for breath.

  Her auburn hair hung down around her shoulders in disarray, muted by a thick layer of ash. Her dark violet dress, singed along the entire right side, also bore streaks of black soot.

  Sterling raced to her, sliding to his knees beside her as he grasped her shoulders, "Where's Dottie?"

  Tears poured down her grime-streaked face. "Sawyer," she choked. She looked at him with terrified pale blue eyes, reddened and irritated from the smoke, "She and Elliot are still upstairs in her room. I-I tried—I couldn't get to them, Sawyer. They're trapped!"

  His eyes widened, and a low growl escaped his raw throat. A desperate urgency seized him. Nothing mattered except saving Dottie and her baby.

  He raced to the main door and gripped the handle, jumping back when heat scorched his palm. Gritting his teeth, he removed his brown calico shirt and ran to the water pump a few feet away. After dousing the material, Sterling soaked his faded navy blue pants.

  Sprinting back to the door, he wrapped his wet shirt around his head and mouth, leaving only a slit wide enough for him to see through before he broke the door down.

  Flames exploded out of the opening, forcing him back for several nerve-wracking seconds before he charged his way into the sweltering inferno. Fire greedily consumed the walls all around him and the curtains adorning the windows, blazing its way over anything in its path.

  Jumping over a burning section of fallen ceiling in his way, he sprinted up the stairs and dodged several more engulfed planks of wood littering the area around him.

  Near the top of the second floor, the entire staircase groaned and shuddered beneath his weight before the damaged supporting beams gave way out from under him. A loud wailing-scream split the air like a banshee as a rafter swung toward him from above, knocking him backward and off-balance just as he leaped up the last three stairs.

  The scorching wood and cinders of the landing burned his exposed shoulders and chest. He struggled to pull himself over the demolished edge, crying out in pain and choking when smoke filled his lungs. Once on his feet, Sterling hurried toward Dottie's room.

  Wrapping his hand around the brass knob, he cursed. Locked. He shouted, "DOTTIE, OPEN UP, IT'S ME."

  No answer. Knowing he didn't have time to mess around, Sterling hurled himself against the door. At six foot four and over two-hundred-sixty pounds of pure muscle, the locked bedroom door had little choice but to give way.

  He stumbled inside amidst the broken wood and rubbed his sore shoulder. Smoke spilled in after him, further clouding his vision as he searched for Dottie and her baby.

  Tears fell from stinging eyes as he choked out, "Dottie!"

  Unable to see anything clearly, he dropped to his knees and continued to yell her name and search for her body. The floorboards were painfully hot to the touch and had him worried they were weakening and would give out at any moment from the flames in the rooms below.

  He had to find her! The crackling roar of the fire in the hall grew louder as it made its way closer to the room, signaling the time for escape was dwindling.

  Sterling shouted her name again, terrified when a mewling sound came from six feet away. Crawling around the bed, he found Dottie unconscious and curled protectively around her three-month-old son.

  Two

  Dottie's dress, burned and ruined on the entire left side, exposed a good deal of scorched and torn petticoats. His heart pounded in his ears. Was he too late? He searched with trembling hands for a pulse and choked back a sob of relief when he found one.

  Sterling closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down and focus on the immediate concern. How would he get both Dottie and her son to safety? He searched for something to place the baby in and found a medium-sized basket overflowing with cloth diapers, partially hidden under the bed.

  He dumped the diapers on the floor, keeping just enough to protect the baby from being scratched by the wood. Then he rolled Dottie to her side and placed her son inside the basket and rushed to the window.

  The sash had been lifted
a mere inch, allowing a small gap for the smoke to escape through. Sterling tried lifting it more but quickly found it was jammed. Muttering a curse, he turned around and took a step; something crunched under his boot.

  Looking to the floor, he found the shattered remains of what used to be Dottie's washbasin and pitcher.

  Glancing to the window and back at the delicate objects, it didn't take long to realize Dottie had tried to use them to break the window but had been unsuccessful. He growled in frustration and continued to search for a heavy object. In the corner rested a sturdy looking rocking chair. Hoping it would work, he picked it up and threw it at the window.

  He turned his back just as the entire window exploded from the impact. Glancing out of the new opening to the awning and ground below, he made sure the area wasn't on fire before returning to Dottie and her baby.

  Behind him, flames completely engulfed the hallway and danced their way across the room's threshold. Struggling to breathe from both the intense heat and thickening smoke, he flung Dottie over his shoulder, gasping in agonized pain when her body rubbed against the raw burns on his chest.

  The pain was intense and unexpected; his vision grew dim, his stomach lurched, and he took a knee worried he'd drop her.

  Refusing to give in to the weakness, Sterling clenched his teeth, then reached over and grabbed the baby basket and carried his two welcome burdens to the window.

  He set the basket on the awning outside the window, then cradled Dottie against him and climbed out. Walking swiftly to the edge, he set the basket and Dottie down, a strangled groan escaping him when her legs rubbed the fragile burned skin on his chest.

  A large patch tore free and caused stars to dance before his eyes. His stomach lurched in revolt. He fought the urge to vomit and took several deep breaths, coughing when more smoke than air entered his lungs.

  Willing his mind to focus on saving Dottie and her baby, Sterling removed his belt from his pants and looked across the smoke-filled yard. Louisa stood nearby, watching his daring rescue unfold.

  He motioned her over and yelled, "I'm gonna send the baby down, then Dottie. She's unconscious, so you're gonna need to brace her."

  Louisa moved where he directed her and nodded, shouting, "They're alive?"

  "Yes," he called back, crouching down to loop his belt through the handles of the basket before carefully lowering it to Louisa.

  Once the weight shifted in her grip, he let go and turned to get Dottie. Bracing himself, he maneuvered her body over the edge and carefully handed her down to her mother.

  Sweat ran into his eyes when he glanced over his shoulder at the growing flames with a hissed curse. The heat at his back grew more intense with each passing second. There was a strong chance they would not be free of the encroaching fire in time.

  The moment Dottie dropped free of the home, a horrendous screeching-moan warned of the weakening of the structure. It shuddered beneath him when Sterling sat on the edge and prepared to descend. Gritting his teeth, he pushed free of the burning building just as it collapsed in upon itself.

  Rolling when he hit the ground, scorched debris rained down upon him, pelting and burning his naked back and chest until he made it to his feet. Louisa wasn't far away, struggling to carry the basket holding her grandchild while dragging a still unconscious Dottie from the crumbling building.

  He ran up to her and motioned for Louisa to grab the baby before he picked up Dottie and ran. Once they were a safe distance away from the fire and smoke, they fell to the ground, gasping for air.

  Sterling laid Dottie down and quickly removed the shirt from around his head seconds before he doubled over on hands and knees and vomited on the grass, coughing up black soot that burned his throat and lungs. When his nausea passed, he glanced at Louisa holding Dottie's crying baby.

  A good sign, he hoped.

  Dottie, however, remained unconscious.

  Worried she'd been out for too long, he rolled her onto her side and pounded his hand against her back until she coughed and gasped for air, swiftly followed by vomiting.

  Relief poured through him so strongly he wanted to weep.

  Meeting Louisa's relieved gaze, he staggered to his feet and rasped, "Don't tell her it was me."

  From the moment he'd purposefully broken her heart six years ago and joined the war, he'd kept his distance because being near her and knowing she could never be his was pure torture.

  However, surviving what had been four of the most harrowing years of his life had not been part of his plan. If anything, he had run into every battle believing, and maybe even hoping, it would be his last. When the war ended, and he was still miraculously alive, the idea of settling down somewhere new tempted him.

  And he would have if Martin hadn't been so close to dying. Seeing his friend and rival in such a state had caused a spring of hope to blossom. A shadow of guilt immediately followed.

  Despite the heartache it may cause to be around Dottie, Sterling couldn't abandon either one of them. Part of him hoped that by returning, maybe then he could start down the path leading to redemption in her eyes.

  But seven months ago, when Dottie became a widow at five months pregnant, he pushed aside any idea of rebuilding the friendship they'd once shared.

  He didn't want to reintroduce himself back into her life by rescuing her from the fire because he didn't want her to feel indebted to him in any way. All he wanted was to ensure she was safe and protected from harm.

  Three

  Sterling stumbled several steps away; the excruciating pain from the burns over his body pulsated in waves, making him tremble.

  He fought another surge of nausea and swallowed before saying, "I'll get Doc Ashfield." He had to pause and take a deep breath to force the bile down before he could continue. "Just don't let her know it was me."

  Louisa nodded, helpless to deny the command for secrecy in his intense golden eyes. He looked wild and ferocious like a predator. Restrained power radiated from his impressive figure. Thick, whiskey-brown hair hung in damp locks to his broad shoulders, the wetness of the strands making his hair appear darker.

  Grime streaked around his red-rimmed eyes and down his ruggedly handsome face blemished by small burns. Louisa's eyes widened in horror when she beheld the full extent of the damage the fire had caused to his body.

  "Sterling," Louisa pleaded, "you're hurt." She gestured to the angry red and waxy white burns visible across his shoulder and chest.

  Large blisters were already forming on several of the wounds, and a small patch of charred skin hung free. Just by looking at Sterling, it became apparent he was in a great deal of pain; and yet he said nothing, his only concern was for Dottie.

  He shrugged and groaned sharply when the movement caused severe pain. Coughs tore at his ravaged throat as he struggled to speak. "I'll be fine." He paused and took a deep breath, hoping he wouldn't pass out. Gritting his teeth, he commanded himself to push the pain away, and pled, "Keep her safe."

  Wanting to hide his damaged torso from the compassion he saw in Louisa's gaze, he tried to put his damp shirt back on. But the barest whisper of the material against those patches of raw flesh found him fighting to remain upright and not give in to the crippling pain.

  Louisa swallowed tears that clogged her throat, aching for him. She was fully aware of his reasons in wanting to keep his identity and involvement away from Dottie. But, from his actions today, it became apparent that he was still very much in love with her daughter, regardless of trying to pretend otherwise.

  Perhaps if her husband, William, were alive today, he would know what to say to handle this situation better. He'd always had a special kinship with Sterling and had loved him as a son.

  She was helpless because there was nothing she could say or do, other than accept his wishes and hope he would seek the medical attention he needed.

  Clutching his shirt in his fist, Sterling closed his eyes for a moment, fighting a wave of dizziness before he turned.

  A ra
gged gasp escaped him at finding near the front of the house a bucket brigade had formed. Men and women from the nearby homesteads flung water onto the raging inferno, desperate to keep the fire from spreading to the barn and thick trees around them.

  Several more wagons raced onto the property, their occupants quickly unloading and joining in with the crowd to try to control the fire. Much to his relief, he saw Doc Ashfield among the large group of people.

  Sterling waved his arm and shouted in an attempt to catch his attention.

  A couple of people noticed him and alerted Ashfield who turned and looked in Sterling's direction.

  In a pitiful attempt at running toward the group, Sterling staggered forward, but only made it a few feet before he doubled over in pain.

  Deep wracking coughs shook his body. Unable to catch his breath, he waved Ashfield over and pointed behind him. He glanced back at Dottie, relieved to see she continued to cough and dry-heave, but was attempting to sit up.

  Doc Ashfield, his shirt and face bearing streaks of soot and dirt, jogged over toward Louisa and Dottie. At the age of forty-one, Ashfield stood at the unremarkable height of five-foot-six.

  Nevertheless, his deep voice commanded respect the instant he spoke. Thick red hair he slicked back to contain unruly curls, now basked in the freedom granted to them in the chaos of the situation.

  Bushy auburn mutton-chop sideburns adorned his broad but pleasant face. Deep-set brown eyes, which normally sparkled with intelligence and sharp wit, were filled with concern as he took in the condition of the Griggs family and Sterling.

  Immediately rushing to Louisa and Dottie's side, he took charge of the situation. The tightness in Sterling's chest lessened at watching them. Ashfield would know what to do to keep them safe. He needed to leave. It would be better for all of them if he did.

  Taking advantage of the chaos, he staggered over to Fancy and left.

  Four

  One Month Later

  Sterling wiped a well-worn handkerchief across his sweaty brow and took several deep breaths, resting for a moment from chopping wood. Muscles ached, and his lungs burned from the chore. He propped the handle of the ax against his thigh and scanned the forest around him.