Page 41 of Somewhere Without You

Thirty Nine

Morning light slipped through the windows, brushing the worn floorboards in soft gold. The living room smelled faintly of smoke, with whisps of it still curling over white ash in the fireplace.

Fora few blissful seconds, I didn’t remember where Iwasor howI’dfallenasleep—thenit all came rushing back. The slashed tires. The keyed car.

Logan.

I blinked, my cheek stuckslightlyto the throw pillow, and turned my head. A blankethadbeen tucked over me sometime during the night, and my neck ached from the angleI’dbeen curled in.

From the kitchen, IheardLogan’s voice, half-singing some old song I couldn’t remember.

I sat upslowly, rubbing my eyes, and turned toseehim standing by the stove, wearing one of my dish towels slung over his shoulder.

Winston stood beside him, watching himslowlymove around the kitchen—though I’m guessing hewasless in it for the help and more in it for the bacon.

Logan glanced over and smiled when hesawme.“Morning.”

I cleared my throat, my voice still thick with sleep.“Are you. . . cooking?”

“Trying to,”he said, flipping something in the panthatmight’ve been eggs.“I figured I owed you breakfast after making you sleep onthattorture device you call a couch.”

I pulled the blanket tighter around me and leaned back against the armrest.“It’s averystylish torture device, thank you.”

He grinned and turned back to the stove.“You drooled on it.Justsaying.”

“Rude,”I mumbled, though my lips curved upwardanyway.

Iwatchedas he tossed a slice of bacon in Winston’s direction.“Aspromised,”he said. Winston lickedferventlyat the grease spot left on the floor before cocking his head and begging for another.“I told him if he didn’t wake you, he would be rewarded.”

“Averyfine reward indeed,”I mused.

Logan poured coffee into the handmade mug before carrying it over.

“Iwasn’tsure how you take it anymore,”he said, handing it to me.

I wrapped my hands around the mug,feelingthe heat seep into my fingers.“Just a splash of cream. Nothing fancy.”

He nodded and sat on the edge of the coffee table, balancing his own mug on his knee.

I tilted my head, eyeing him.“I thought you said you didn’t like coffee?”

“I don’t,”he replied, grimacing at the mug before taking a cautious sip.“Butyou do.AndI want to share the things you love, with you.”

I smiled, cradling my own cup and breathing in the warm, comforting scent.

We sattherefor a minute, drinking coffee and letting the quiet settle again.Therewassomething about this momentthatmade my chest ache in agoodway. Like hope, but quieter.

Logan reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face.“I don’t expect this to be easy.”he said, breaking the silence.“Ijustwant you toknowI’m here.Howeverlong it takes.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, the emotion rising too fast.“I don’tknowhow to do this yet.”

“You don’t have to,”he said, his hand finding mine.“Youjusthave to trust me.”

I set the mug down and gave him a half-smile.“I’ve always trusted you.”

We ate in companionable silence, pausing to laugh at Winston whoseemedto keep inching closer each time we took another bite.

“I shouldprobablyhead out soon,”Logan said after we finished.“Change into some fresh clothes, check on things.Maybego to work.”

I nodded, my heart sinking a little.“Yeah. Of course.”

He watched me for a moment, then gave me a reassuring smile. “I’ll come back tonight. If you want me to.”

I squeezed his fingers.“I do.”

Logan kissed my foreheadgentlyand stood, wincingslightlyas his hand brushed over his eye. Iwatchedhim walk to the door, hesitant to break the moment.

“Logan?”I called after him.

He turned, hand on the doorknob.

“What you said. . . last night? Ifeelthe same way.Just, please be patient with me.”The last time I told someone I loved them, it destroyed me. IknewI loved him, but once those words left my mouth, I couldn’t take them back.

His expression softened.“I’ll spend the rest of my life waiting, if that’s how long it takes.”

I looked down at my hands, then back up at him. “You mean that?” I asked, heart stumbling in my chest.

He crossed the room, stopping in front of me. Then, gently, his fingers brushed my cheek, like I was something fragile he wasn’t ready to lose.

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

His mouth found mine with aching slowness—no urgency, just truth. The kind that settled in your bones and made you forget how to breathe.

He kissed me like a promise. Like the years we lost didn’t matter, because this moment was ours.

And I kissed him back, like I’d been waiting my whole life to remember how.

February 2nd, 1864

West Virginia

Dearest Emily,

The lantern burns low tonight, its flame flickering against the canvas walls as if it, too, is weary from all this waiting.

Outside, the wind howls across the camp like a restless ghost, stirring up the scent of ash and cold earth.

Most of the men have turned in, their breaths rising in clouds as they sleep, but I find myself awake once again. . . thinking of you.

It is a strange thing, to write to someone I have never met and yet feel tethered to in ways I cannot explain. Perhaps it is the nature of war that makes men speak truths they might otherwise carry to their graves. Or perhaps it is something else entirely. Something older. Something deeper.

You asked of Finnigan, and it’s no simple thing to put him into words.

My brother is as steady as an oak, firm-rooted and resolute in a way I have never quite managed to be.

And yet, for all his steadiness, he is not without heart.

I’ve seen him risk himself for men he hardly knew.

I’ve watched him carry the wounded and bury the dead with the care of a brother.

Where I tend to overthink and carry the weight of things too long, Finn moves with quiet purpose.

Men follow him not because he demands it, but because he embodies a kind of strength they can trust. When we were boys, Finn was always the first to leap from the riverbank, the first to climb the highest branch, the first to throw a stone simply to watch the ripple.

He was bold, not for the sake of bravado, but because the world seemed to welcome him.

He has a fondness for stories, particularly the old ones told by our grandfather on winter nights, about kings and warriors and far-off lands.

I recall how he’d sit at the hearth, eyes wide, absorbing every word as though it were truth carved into stone.

Though younger by three years, he leaves behind a wife and a small child.

Emily, the thought of him not returning to them haunts me more than any bullet or blade.

Of all the horrors this war has shown me, that possibility remains my greatest fear.

To know him is to know loyalty in its truest form.

And to lose him. . . I dare not let my thoughts go that far.

I must confess, when I first laid eyes on your photograph, something stirred within me, a sensation I can neither explain nor dismiss.

Itwasas if your eyeswerenot new to me.

Asif Ihadseenthem before, though in what world, in what lifetime, I cannot say.

The clarity of the imagewasso strikingthatIfeltas if Icouldreach out and touch you.

Itwasalmost as though youwerestanding before me, so vivid, so real.

In some confounded way, youweremore than a photograph, as though the image itselfwasalive.

Andthe color, how astonishing toseeyou in such richness!

The way the hues of the light captured your beauty, the way your skinseemedto glow with a fairnessthatmade me pause, in awe.

Andyour eyes. They are a depth I cannot begin to explain, rich and alive with something untold.

I find myself transfixed by them, unable tolookaway.

Is it possiblethatsuch a thingcouldbe?

Couldit bethatmy soulhassomehow wandered between worlds, orthatI am already lost, trapped in a strange limbo between time?

I do notknow, Emily, but what I doknowwith certainty is this.

Iknowyou. Notjustin my mind, nor in the words I write to you, but in something far more familiar.

My soulknowsyou. It knows the warmth of a summer rain that lingers on your skin.

The sweetness of honey in your hair. The constellation of freckles across your cheeks.

Iknowthem as though I’ve touched them, kissed them.

I’ve held you in a way this life does not remember.

Please, do not think me mad, nor forward in my affections.

I amsimplya man whohasnothing left to lose and no time for silence.

BeforeI ride out again, Ifeltthe desperate need to speak the truththatstirs deep within me.

Ifyou do notfeelthis strange connection, this pull between us, I will understand, though my heart aches at the thought.

Perhapsit ismadness, butthenagain, how else can one explain the way the universe bends, folds, and carries us along in strange currents we cannot control?

I leave tomorrow, and I may be gone for several days.

We are surrounded, with no food, no medicine, and precious little time.

Our plan is bold, almost reckless. We ride into confederate lines to negotiate what peace we can.

The general and several officers will accompany me, and Finnigan will stay behind.

He does notknowof you, nor of the letters we’ve shared, but I have instructed him to write to you should I not return.

My satchel, with all my thoughts of you, will remain with him.

Whatever happens, Emily, I want you toknowthis. Isawyou. Isawyou as though youwerea part of me, a part I did notknowIhadlostuntil I found you.Andsomething deep within me, something I cannot explain, remembers you.

Yours beyond time and space,

James