Eleanor Tatum

Dear Readers,

I have lost a month, October. Life truly does get in the way of a writer’s world. Forgive me. Eleanor Tatum

Trevor’s usual doubts, needs, and questions fed the quick march south through the dimming light. What the hell was he doing? Bears? Natives? He needed to get back. He needed to get out. Go north. Go home. “My family! Dear God! The Boys!” He mumbled in frustration. He needed to go home even if his pockets were empty. His brothers would be turned out in just a few weeks. He needed to be there with them.

Stuck between that infamous rock and that hard place, that’s where he was. He pushed the underbrush with his weapon and shook his head. Laughing out loud at his precarious situation, Trevor swatted yet another branch. His future brother-in-law, a suspicious friend at best, might be trying to kill him, but why? Obviously to save his family’s money from jumping the pond. Here he was trying to help a pretty lady he knew nothing about and meanwhile he was getting eaten alive by small flying bugs, called ‘noseeums’.

He trekked forward toward the edge of the next clearing and stopped. He felt totally lost, unsure, confused, and although he would never admit to it; he hated the dark.

For the second time that evening, he felt Catherine’s hand on his arm. She tugged him forward. “Come on, you rather adorable lordship, this way.” It wasn’t his Birchmere Halls, but it was pine log lean-to shelter, at least on three sides. No four-poster beds, but he liked the arrangements.

“Guard the women. We’ll catch a rest here in the front.” Ross pointed to the back where Catherine and Joann settled on top of their coats and bags to protect themselves from the dirt floor and its possible small crawling guests. “Scrunch in, Lord Coffman, as close as you can get to them. I’ll take the first watch.”

“Sir, there’ll be no ‘lording’ around these fine accommodations.” The laughter helped each one to deal with smells of the previous guests, both human and not so much. “Please address me as Trevor, or in the morning you may call me Sir Smelly.” He pushed his hip as close to Catherine as he could and he wished he could see her face, but the moon forgot to stay. Her hand, however, wound around his upper arm and he hugged it close.

“Sleep well, Mrs. Garrett,” Ross whispered over them to Joann, who was now wedged into the angled roof and the ground. “I’ll catch a hug soon, my love. Maybe tomorrow we’ll find out the answers to your questions about our English hero, Sir Smelly.”

Egad! And Enough!