“Thee doesn’t believe in miracles then?”

      Matthew was about to say he didn’t, and then he recalled all he’d witnessed today. “I haven’t for a long time,” he said finally. “Is it a miracle or coincidence that my cousin was one of the men you nursed at Gettysburg?”

      “I call it providence,” Verity answered.

      “Providence?” Matt asked.

      “Yes. God knew that I would come here to Fiddler’s Grove to open this school for freed slaves.”

      Matt wished Verity wouldn’t wear such a deep-brimmed bonnet. He wanted to watch her vivid expressions. For a woman who radiated peace, she felt and showed everything vibrantly.

      As she continued to speak of the providence that brought them to this place, her voice grew stronger with the passion that he loved in her. And hated. Don’t care so much, Verity. That’s the way to pain. He wanted so much more for her.

      LYN COTE

      Lyn Cote married her real-life hero and was blessed with a son and daughter. She loves game shows, knitting, cooking and eating! She and her husband live on a beautiful lake in the north woods of Wisconsin. Now that the children have moved out, she indulges three cats: V-8 (for the engine not the juice), Sadie and Tricksey. In the summer, she writes using her laptop on her porch overlooking the lake. And in the winter she sits by the fireplace her husband installed with the help of a good neighbor during their first winter at the lake. Lyn loves to hear from readers, so visit her Web site at www.LynCote.net, or e-mail her at [email protected].

      Lyn Cote

      Her Captain’s Heart

      Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the children of God.

      —Matthew 5:9

      I can do all things through Christ which strengthen me.

      —Philippians 4:13

      Dedicated to my Sunday school teachers, the

       women and men who first taught me about God, His Son and His Spirit. Florence Brauck, Ruth Silovich, Beatrice Sladek née Nilsen, Gordon Zoehler and others whom only God recalls.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Epilogue

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

      Chapter One

      Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, September 1866

      Verity Hardy loathed the man, God forgive her. She stood looking down at her late husband’s cousin, she on the top step of her wide porch, he on the bottom. The unusually hot autumn sun burned just beyond the scant shade of the roof. Her black mourning dress soaked up the heat that buffeted her in waves, suffocating and singeing her skin. The man had been haranguing her for nearly a quarter of an hour and she didn’t know how much more she could take.

      “I can’t believe you’re going through with this insane plan.” Urriah Hardy wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and glared at her, his jowly face reddening. He held the reins of his handsome gelding, fidgeting just behind him.

      Pressing a hankie to her upper lip, she looked past him to the golden fields beyond. Memories of wounded soldiers—their agonized screams and soul-deep moans—shuddered through Verity. She’d never forget those bloody July days three years ago. She couldn’t let them count for naught. Still, her deep uncertainty made her hands tremble. She clasped them together so he wouldn’t see this sign of weakness. “Thee knows,” she said in a final attempt at politeness, “I’ve packed everything, and we leave at dawn.”

      “You’re a fool, woman. That renter you’ve found won’t make a go of it. He lost his own farm.”

      Yes, because he was drafted into the Union Army and thy younger brother, the banker, wouldn’t give him more time to pay the mortgage. “That’s really none of thy business,” she murmured, adding a warning note to her tone.

      “You should have rented to me. I’m family.”

      His reference to family stung her like rock salt. Urriah had cheated on every business deal she’d ever known him to make. “So thee could have cheated me instead?”

      After the brazen words popped out of her mouth, conscience stung Verity instantly. Judge not, lest ye be judged. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—take back the words. She stood her ground, her face hot and set.

      He swore at her, vulgar and profane, something no man had ever done in her presence.

      Her frayed temper ripped open. “I don’t expect thee to understand,” she shot back with a disdain she couldn’t hide. “Not a coward who bought his way out of the draft.”

      For a moment he rocked on his toes and she thought he might climb the steps to strike her. Instead, an evil, gloating leer engulfed his ugly face. “Well, since you won’t listen to reason, I guess you’ll just have to take what comes, down in Dixie. You’ll be lucky if the Rebs just run you out of town on a rail. If they lynch you, I’ll inherit the land and you know it.” He chuckled in a mean way and turned his back to her. “The day a woman bests me will be the day hell freezes over,” he taunted as he mounted his horse.

      His parting shot drew her down the steps and into the dusty lane. “I’ve made out a will and thee’s not the beneficiary!” she called after him. “Roger’s father inherits the land as guardian of Beth.”

      “I’m a patient man, Quaker.” He pulled up the reins, stopping his horse. “I can wait till Roger’s father dies and then the court will name me, your daughter’s next of kin, guardian of her assets.” He doffed his hat in an insolent way and cantered off.

      Stiff with disapproval, she watched until she could see only the dust his horse’s hooves kicked up in the distance. The hot anger drained out of her, leaving her hollow with regret and worry.

      Letting anger rule the tongue was never wise. But his cutting words had prompted her own doubts. Was she up to the task she’d taken for herself?

      Out of the blue, a memory—vivid and as fresh as today—caught her by surprise. Five years earlier, she’d stood in this very spot as her husband had left for war. She could see the back of his blue Union uniform as he marched away from her.

      Then he halted in midstride and ran back to her. Pulling her into his arms, he’d crushed her against the rough wool of his jacket. His kiss had been passionate, searching, as if drinking in the very essence of her. “I’ll come back to you,” he’d promised. “I will.”

      But he hadn’t. Thousands upon thousands had broken that same promise. She’d watched many soldiers die, both gray and blue. And many had keepsakes from wives or sweethearts in their pockets. It broke her heart to think of it.

      She wrapped her arms around her. In spite of the scorching sun, the loneliness she’d lived with for the past five years whistled through her like an icy winter wind. “Now I’m leaving, too, dearest one,” she whispered.

      She’d