Page 87 of Somewhere Without You
The door shut behind him, and I was alone.
I looked toward the window, the one he’d patched up with quiet hands and good intentions, and wondered, not for the first time, if some things were meant to be fixed. . . or if they were always meant to stay broken.
Forty Six
February 12th, 1864
West Virginia
Dearest Miss Hart,
My name is Finnigan Walker, and I write to you on behalf of my brother, Captain James Walker. As I’m sure you already must know, he entrusted me with the unfortunate duty of contacting you under grim circumstances.
It is with great sorrow and a heavy heart that I must inform you of his presumed death. Nearly a fortnight has passed since his company was dispatched to engage Confederate forces approximately seven miles west of our present position. While the remains of several of his comrades have since been recovered, Captain Walker is, as of now, still unaccounted for.
With limited provisions, we plan to take brief refuge at a nearby farmstead, less than two days’ ride from where we are now. Should the enemy retreat in due course, we may be able to dispatch scouts to recover him. Until then, our numbers have grown thin, and our commanding officer cannot justify further endangering the men who remain.
I am truly sorry to write to you under such grievous matters. Though I do not know the precise nature of your connection to my brother, it is clear he held you in high regard.
Please accept my deepest condolences, though I know they can offer little comfort. Whatever bond you shared with James, I trust it will be enough to carry his memory with you as life continues its course.
May God bless and guide you,
Lieutenant Finnigan S. Walker
2nd Regiment, Union Army
I crushed the letter in my fist, as if destroying the paper might erase his words. James was dead. He’d always been dead. So why did it hurt so much?
I reached for a pen and paper, but my hand froze. What was the point? My connection had never been with Finn—it was with James. And as shocking as it was to find his letter tucked inside the satchel, I doubted anything I wrote would even reach him anyway.
It rained for days, a fitting soundtrack to close out the week. Dani dropped by at one point, and I filled her in on what happened with Jackson, explaining how Logan and Winston teamed up to send him packing, bloodied and bruised.
“Winston attacked him?”she asked, eyebrows raised. I could tell she was surprised, but also impressed.
“Yeah,”I said, still a little stunned myself.“Went straight for the leg. Clamped down hard, too.”
Dani let out a low whistle, shaking her head with a half-smile.“I didn’t think he had it in him.”
“Me neither,”I admitted.
“Why do I always miss the good shit?”she teased.
I let out a short laugh.“I’m glad my personal disasters are keeping you entertained.”
“I live at the shelter,”Dani said with a sigh.“The most exciting thing that ever happens there is when one of the dogs figures out how to open the latch and leads a jailbreak through the kennels.”
I grinned.“That’s actually kind of amazing.”
“It is, until you’re chasing half a dozen of them through the halls, trying to talk them back into their kennels like some kind of hostage negotiator,”she said, shaking her head with a tired laugh.
“How’s everything else going over there, by the way?”I asked.
She’d been overwhelmed lately, overrun with intakes. Each kennel was now holding two, sometimes three dogs, and she’d had to stop accepting cats altogether.
Danielle’s smile faded.“I tried. I really did. But it looks like I’m going to have to start euthanizing again.”
My eyes drifted to Winston, whose ears perked. He was one of the lucky ones. My chest tightened at the thought of Ruger and Brutus—their lives cut short through no fault of their own.
