Though Behind the Veil was the first book I published, if you haven’t read it, here’s a sneak peek. It includes both the Prologue and Chapter 1. Enjoy!

Prologue

Caleb closed his eyes, erasing the flames all around him.  He wished he could close his ears to shut out the screams, but those seemed destined to haunt the wee hours of the night.  He took a deep breath, choking on the ash that hung in the air like snowflakes.

“Pull yourself together, Caleb,” he muttered, trying to breathe evenly.

His eyes wandered to the cart where the three girls looked back with tortured eyes as others milled around trying to bring comfort.  He tried to smile, failed, and looked away.  He’d found them clutching each other in the deep recesses of the many barns people always sought for shelter. 

“Poor things,” he mused.  “Don’t they know it’s the first place soldiers look?”

“Talking to yourself again, Caleb?”  David joined him, surveying the scorching landscape.  “Another job finished, and a lot of new workers too.  Once we get them broken in, we’ll have the luxury we deserve.  Whatever you think of his methods, he’s effective.”

“Yes,” Caleb said, wondering if David’s statement revealed what he thought of the king’s methods. 

“We’re about to head out.”  David slapped his shoulder and walked towards the wagon, stopping to set in a small boy who was crying for his parents.

Caleb shook his head, watching David’s retreating back.  “How did I get here?”  He looked down at his hand, resting on the sword, the red stone shining bright.  Red, like the blood of so many townspeople whose deaths had left three girls huddled on a barn floor and a little boy crying for his parents.  He knew that feeling.  It had been him three short years ago.  Before he was “broken in.”  The smell of fire still woke him up in a cold sweat.

“You coming?”  David looked back and waited for him to catch up.

“Yes,” Caleb said again.  Did he have a choice? He ran his fingers over the hilt of his sword one last time before running to catch up with David.  “Where are we going next?”  With this king, there was always a next.

“Well, training the new captures will take some time, but word on the street is we’re going to start in a different region.  The scouts will be setting up a base camp in some small town in Missouri no one’s heard of.  Sappington, I think?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Like I said.”

“That’s good if you’re trying to lay low, but that’s never been his style.  What’s in Sappington?”  They had reached the rest of the army who were loading anything of value into the remaining wagons.

“Not sure,” David answered, shrugging.  “I just go where I’m told.”

“Me too,” Caleb said, hoping David didn’t recognize the bitterness in his voice.  Too bad a place isn’t even on the map before it’s about to get wiped off it.  Too bad indeed.   

Chapter 1

“She walks in beauty like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies

And all that’s best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes.”

~ George Gordon, Lord Byron

“She Walks in Beauty”

          Emma Randolf tapped her pencil distractedly.  If only her life was different.  In her mind, she could almost picture the soaring marble columns, the crystal chandeliers, and the whirling couples.  She shook her red-gold curls, closing her eyes and straining to hear the music that echoed off the vaulted ceilings.  Emma nestled deeper into the window seat overlooking the back pasture where she often sat daydreaming of love and the life she lived only in her imagination.  But today, her gray eyes were as stormy as the sky outside.  Those who knew Emma well could predict her mood by those eyes. 

            Today’s storm had been caused by Herman Sheffield.  “Herman!” she sputtered, reaching up to curl her hair ribbon around her finger as the scene came rushing back.  She had been strolling along home, minding her own business, having just purchased the most adorable ribbon, when who should approach but Herman.  Herman Sheffield lived on the farm adjacent to the Randolf’s and had recently adopted the annoying habit of waylaying Emma at every possible opportunity.  She stiffened, remembering him strolling beside her even now.

            “Emma!” he had called, hurrying up to match her stride.

She tried to be pleasant, but Emma found Herman exceedingly dull.  “Hello, Herman,” she had sighed, kicking a wayward stone.

“Were you at the General Store?” he asked, eying her bag. 

In answer, Emma had simply held up the ribbon. 

Instead of admiring the ribbon as any proper gentleman would do, Herman had launched into a description of all the exciting things one could find at the General Store and the items they should sell from town.  Within seconds, her eyes had glazed over.  Emma longed for an exciting life, and Herman seemed determined to dash her ideals at every turn. 

            She shuddered, trying to imagine actually being courted by Herman.  “And what kind of a name is Herman, I ask you?” she said to no one in particular, tossing her curls again.  “Imagine yelling that up the stairs for the rest of your life. ‘Herman, it’s time for dinner.’, ‘Herman, the cow’s loose in the lilies again.’, ‘Herman, Mr. March stopped in to see you.’  No, it simply will not do.  I could never have a romantic suitor named Herman.”  She sighed.  No matter how many none-too-subtle hints she gave, Herman would see her home anyway.  The audacity! 

            She tapped her pencil so hard it left a dent in the page of her diary.  She closed her eyes, and the ballroom swam into view again.  She had been trying to decide what to call the hero of her story when thoughts of Herman had intruded.  The man fortunate enough to be loved by Emma Randolf would have to have a strong, sensible name.  But, what?  What name would describe someone strong but not domineering, proud but not arrogant, humble but not groveling?

            “Jeffrey,” she whispered, savoring every letter.  A tall handsome man stepped into the ballroom, smiled, bowed, and extended his hand inviting her to dance.  That was it.  She would call her ideal Jeffrey.

            A noise from the doorway made the ballroom disappear and brought Emma crashing down to reality.  Her mother’s voice reached her before she came into view. 

            “Who are you talking to?” Lora called, turning the corner.

            “No one, Mother,” Emma closed her diary.  “I was just thinking about my future.”

            “Really?”  Lora tilted her head, cocking one eyebrow.  She had little patience for Emma’s daydreaming.  Lora herself was a hard-working woman who must have been a great beauty in her day, but now most often looked worn down by the hard work and honest toil of running a farm in Sappington.  Too often, she had to drag her daughter’s attentions away from “cloudless climes and starry skies” and back to the more mundane tasks like mucking out the stables.

            “Was that Herman I saw walking you home?” she inquired with barely disguised approval.  Unlike Emma, Lora thought the world of Herman and could already imagine him married to Emma and bringing seven children over to grandmother’s house. 

            “Mother, please,” Emma’s gray eyes flashed dangerously.  “I do trust that I will find a suitor less tedious than Herman.  Herman—what a name!  I think I’d walk right into Barry’s pond if Herman were my lot in life.  No, Mother, my aims are much higher than Herman Sheffield.”

            Lora sighed—it was the special sigh she reserved for those times when Emma was being exceptionally unreasonable. 

            “He’s a good boy, Emma—almost a man.  Old Amos Jones says he’s practically running the Sheffield place.  Will you please try to be reasonable, Emma?  You must realize you’re almost sixteen.  I was married by the time I was your age.  But, you stay lost in this dream world of yours worrying about noble brows instead of valuing a man who can provide for you.  All the while, your sewing’s abysmal, and you still haven’t managed a decent pie.  This ideal you’ve cooked up won’t want you if you can’t keep house, whatever his name is.”

            Emma bit the corner of her lip.  In addition to tossing her red-gold curls in a particular way that made the sun leap off them like molten fire, this gesture also hadn’t escaped the notice of many local boys.  How could she explain to someone so—settled, yes, that was the word—that her heart ached for mountaintops and gurgling springs not slopping pigs and churning butter.  She dreamed of medieval times when women were beautiful and strong men fought battles just for the love of them. 

            “Mother, any man who only wants me for my pies and my darning isn’t worth a second look,” she replied, tossing her head emphatically.

            “But, any man who works hard and is willing to put a roof over your head is!  You said you were thinking about your future, Emma.  Well, these are the things you have to think about.”

            Now, it was Emma’s turn to sigh.  It always came down to this:  Who was going to provide for her?  Why did life have to be so dull?  Emma closed her copy of Byron, gathered her books, and eased herself out of the window seat.  “I’ll go milk the cow,” she said, resigning herself to the present world, completely unaware that just outside her vision was the very world for which her heart ached.