Excerpt from The Rains of War

The sun was just peeking over the tree line as I stopped at the edge of the horseshoe-shaped clearing. A dense fog rested on the ground, bringing to life the pungent smell of birch and pine. Patches of ivy blanketed the earth beneath them, making plush beds for fallen needles.

I pulled the letter from the hidden pocket in my waistcoat, a tinge of brown faded onto the worn edges. With care I peeled it from the small family picture I’d carried with me ever since I’d left home. The sight of his familiar scrawl comforted me. After a moment, I folded the letter away and tapped a heel against Eros’ side.

A good-sized two story residence topped with a metal roof and dormer windows sat center of the far back edge of the clearing. Rain gutters stretched out to an above-ground water tank. A barn and byre with a nearby hand pump and water trough were on the opposite side.

I dismounted, and led Eros over to the hitching post, my hands shaking as I tethered the reins.

The smell of chimney smoke and fresh flat bread wafted about. Plump bushes with dark leaves and some sort of blooms formed a wall nearly as tall as the porch. Two midsize terra-cotta pots filled with potting soil were perched along the rail; the word "aloe" slanted across one and "rosemary" on the other. Beside them, colander-like copper bowls for a rain chain were stacked one in the other, gleaming a rich blue-green from years of use.

I raised a hand to knock, but my eyes were drawn upwards to a small, pewter plate crowning the door. Etched in the center was a pictish boar, encircled by Celtic knotwork. A mere ornament to most, those lines rendered a much more significant meaning to anyone familiar with the owner. He was a Gàidheal; a Highlander.

My throat closed and tears stung my eyes at the sound of the faint, familiar whistling coming from inside. I drew a deep breath and knocked.

The door creaked open. He stared a moment, then swept me up into his arms, my feet dangling several inches above the wooden porch. Just when I thought my lungs would collapse, he put me down. My stomach uncoiled for the first time in days as I looked up into the gentle face of Elias Buchanan.

He towered over me a good twenty centimeters. Wide shoulders tapered down to the trim waistline of the navy denims he wore. His muscular chest pressed against a matching fleece shirt; sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealed chiseled forearms. Hands that could have squeezed my brains out my ears cradled my arms like a newborn.

His hair was the same smartly trimmed dark auburn, except for the slight tapering of gray from his temples. A thin, faded scar snaked down from his right ear to just above his jaw. The bridge of his nose was just a wee thick where it had been broken once upon a time. Blue eyes narrowed as he searched my face, then took on a familiar gleam.

The way he looked at me caused my throat to ache again. I swallowed hard. "I need your help."

Without a word, he ushered me inside and led me to the kitchen. Large double windows lined the walls, each one blazing with morning light. Two sizable Zeer pots marked "fresh veggies" were stowed away in a small mudroom leading out to the back door.

Pots and pans hung over an oak worktable positioned a safe distance from a wide wood-burning stove, which at the moment had a huge soup pot simmering in silence on top.

He set a bowl of fried potatoes with egg and a glass of milk on a long, thick table flanked by two matching benches, and then motioned for me to sit down.

"The others will be back soon. They’ve been awa’ since yesterday," He took a seat across from me. "I wasna expecting ye until after you finished Staff Course."

My stomach rumbled. I fought the urge to shovel food in my mouth, reaching for my drink instead. "My sister’s been taken to the Cauldron."

Something flashed in his eyes. "How long ago?"

I drained my glass, then wiped away the milk clinging to my upper lip. "Word is around four days."

"Sweet Christ." He breathed.

I took a small bite of potatoes. "We can ride hard and be there in as little as two."

He looked at me a moment. "Mind, it will only be the five of us."

"Three Commandos…" I pointed a thumb towards my chest, "… a troop commander trained in EOD…" I motioned towards him, "… and a Combat Medical Technician. What more do we need?"

The corner of his mouth lifted. "How aboot the rest of the Fighting 59th?"

© M.H. Mayfield. All rights reserved.