A Long and Lonely Mile

Chapter 5

At first, it felt like drowning. The voice of the stream was magnified when it reached her ears. Her vision had grown distorted, but only around the edges. She could see the tall blades of grass that surrounded her and the dry trunks of several nearby trees. They helped her realize that she was not being submerged, but held just above the ground. She knew him, not sight, but by the strength of his arms and the sound of his breath. The tightness of his embrace grew with every passing moment and yet, she felt something stronger than both of them was at work- pain. A pain unlike anything she'd ever felt before, dizzying and disorienting. He spoke softly to her, calling her by a name that she knew, but that wasn't her own.

"Annabelle," his face came into focus, but only slightly. Marigold could see his handsome features taking form against the gentle framing of his long, dark hair. "Dear Annabelle," he seemed to beg, "listen. I cannot carry you or ride without using both hands and the bandaging will only do so much. Will you keep pressure on your wound while I ride you into camp?"

Marigold searched for the source of the radiating pain with her fingertips and when she was unsuccessful, he guided her hands. Sure enough, the fabric separating her touch from the deep bullet hole was thoroughly soiled with fresh blood. Panic came next. Marigold's hands shot into the air, barely reaching her narrowing field of vision. From the tips of her fingers to the base of her palms, an unmistakable coat of crimson glistened in the sunlight. Everything that she was, body and soul was quickly fading. Dying. Somewhere inside, she surrendered just enough strength to her one and only survival tactic- words. Except when she spoke, it wasn't a word at all, but a name...

"William!" Marigold cried at the top of her lungs.

As the familiar white and yellow furnishings and décor came into view, she realized that she was sitting upright in her own bed, drenched in a cold sweat. From below, she could hear the squeaking shower handle in the guest bathroom and the constant flow of water that must have inspired her dream, shutting off.

"Do not come up here, do not come up here," she thought aloud as his feet began to fall loudly on the stairs.

"Miss Casey?" Asked the voice behind the door between knocks. "Miss Casey, are you alright?"

"Don't come in here, Colonel. I'm still mad at you."

After a moment or two, he could be heard walking away. Her pulse mellowed out as she threw herself down on her cheerful, yellow comforter and switched on her phone. "October 2, 2017 11:34 PM" stared back at her on the face of the neon screen. Several emails were listed below the time and date, but there was nothing of importance. Nothing pertaining to what had happened earlier that day. This came as both a relief and a source of great frustration.

"Miss Casey?" Tavington beckoned again. From the kitchen, by the sound of it. "Miss Casey? Your canine is distressing."

Marigold covered her face with her hands. "Distressing?"

"It's a polite way of saying that she is on the verge of suffering... an involuntary reflex of the stomach."

"Good God," she moaned, collecting her robe and keys and heading down the hallway, "Sure! I accidentally put it in the section of the fridge labeled 'dog food'! But you should have known not to give a dog carrot cake. I don't care what year you're from."

She clipped Moxie's leash on as gently as possible and headed for the front door. Had she stayed a moment longer, her presence surely would have initiated another strain of elaborate apologies from Tavington and she didn't want to hear it. Between his earlier claim that he knew Henry in his previous life by the name of "John Andre" and that today was the 237th anniversary of his execution, she craved distance from him for a while. That was just the tip of the iceberg, however. After leading Moxie to the street-side grass reserved for the neighborhood dogs, Marigold dialed Giselle who answered not a moment later.