But it didn’t call to her as this spot did. Here, on the ground, there was no lofty distance between the living and the dead.
She sat down on the grass, knowing she would feel only a sadness, an intellectual connection with the past. As compelling, as hallowed, as the ground was, she could only be a historian.
Ghosts didn’t speak to her, not here. It was the farm that held the key for her. The farm that haunted not only her dreams now, but her waking hours, as well. She accepted that. But what was the connection there? What was the emotional link? A link so strong it had pulled at her for years, over thousands of miles.
That she didn’t know.
She knew only that she was in love.
She lifted her face to the breeze, let it run its fingers through her hair as Shane often did. How could she be so content, and yet so unsettled? There were so many questions unanswered, so many feelings unresolved. She wondered if that was the way of love.
Was she still so passive, so undemanding of others, that she could settle so easily for
what Shane offered? Or was she still so needy, so starved for love, that she fretted for more when she had enough?
Either way, it proved that a part of her, rooted deep, hadn’t changed. Perhaps never would.
He cared for her, he desired her. She was pathetically grateful for that. He’d be shocked to know it, she was certain. She would keep that to herself, just as she kept this outrageous and overwhelming love for him to herself.
She had plenty of practice at restricting and restraining her emotions.
Common sense told her she was being greedy. She wanted all the love, the passion, the endurance, that lived in that house for herself. She wanted the stability of it, the constancy, and the acceptance.
She was the transient, as she had always been.
But she wouldn’t leave empty-handed this time, and that thought soothed. There wouldn’t simply be knowledge received and given, there would be emotion—more emotion than she had ever received, more than she’d ever given. That was something to celebrate, and to treasure.
That should be enough for anyone.
Sitting alone, she gazed over the fields, the slope of the hill, the narrow trench. It was so utterly peaceful, so pristine, and its beauty was terrible. She’d studied history enough to know the strategies of war, the social, political and personal motivations behind it. Knew enough, too, to understand the romance that followed it.
The music, the beat of the drum, the wave of flags and the flash of weapons.
She could picture the charge, men running wildly through the smoke of cannon fire, eyes reddened, teeth bared. Their hearts would have pounded, roaring with blood. They had been men, after all. Fear, glory, hope, and a little madness.
That first clash of bayonets. The sun would have flashed on steel. Had the crows waited, nasty and patient, drawn by the thunder of swords and boom of mortar?
North or South, they would have raced toward death. And the generals on their horses, playing chess with lives, how had they felt, what had they thought, as they watched the carnage here? The bodies piling up, blue and gray united by the stain of blood. The miserable cries of the wounded, the screams of the dying.
She sighed again. War was loss, she thought, no matter what was gained.
Always there would be a John and Sarah, the essence of the grieving parents for dead sons. War stole families, she reflected. Cut pieces out of hearts that could never truly heal.
So we build monuments to the wars, and the dead sons. We tell ourselves not to forget. John and Sarah never forgot. And love endured.
It made her smile as she rose. The grass was green here, and the air quiet. She decided that the world needed places of loss to help them remember what they had.
She went home to write.
It was nearly time for evening milking, Rebecca realized, and she laughed at herself. How odd that she would begin to gauge the day by farm chores. With a shake of her head, she hammered out the next sentence.
Why had she spent all her life writing technical papers? she wondered. This flow of emotion and thought and imagination was so liberating. Damned if she didn’t think she might try her hand at a novel eventually.
Chuckling at the thought, she tucked it into the back of her mind. There were plenty of people who would consider her present topic, the supernatural, straight fiction.
When the phone rang, she let the next thought roll around in her head as she rose to answer. Absently she reached for the coffeepot and the receiver at the same time.
“Hello?”