Struggling to form even a single word and aware she was
gaping like a fish out of water, Allison snapped her mouth closed. Just the
night before, she had seen that face depicted in the little dime novel she was
reading and unless she was sorely mistaken, she was face to face with one Major
A.J. Adams, rumored liberator of a lot of Confederate gold.
A muscle clenched in his jaw while something icy filled the
depths of his eyes. His hands closed on her waist, and a small squeak escaped
her. Without apparent effort, he lifted her and set her down a foot or so away.
“Go sit down over there on that hay bale, before you fall out the door, or
worse, knock me through it.”
Jolted out of her shocked silence and immobility, Allison
managed a mumbled “Of course,” and cautiously walked to the hay bale in a
corner of the car. She sat, then dropped her head to the wall behind her and
shut her eyes, all the while tucking in the strands of hair that had escaped
the chignon at the back of her head in an attempt to recreate a semblance of
order.
After subduing her rebellious hair, she brushed the
remaining strands of hay from her traveling suit and glanced over to the opened
door, pondering her disbelief and shock in coming face to face with the main
subject of the novel shoved into the depths of her carpetbag. With a small
start, she realized she had looked up
into his face earlier and she had never been accused of being short. And, he
had lifted her—twice—as if she
weighed no more than a feather tick.
Her brusque rescuer had his back to her. Black hair brushed
over the top of his collar, a hard contrast to the canary yellow. He stood with
his right shoulder pressed into the door frame, right ankle crossed over left.
Short-shanked, blunted spurs were buckled onto his boots. Growing up and living
all her adult life in rural Georgia, she knew many men who had fought for the
Confederacy. Most of them, if they still wore part of their uniform, did so out
of necessity. Reconstruction had brought poverty to the South and abject
poverty among the “Sons of the South” was the norm rather than the exception.
He didn’t seem to wear that overcoat out of necessity. His
denims weren’t faded, and even though there was wear from what she could see of
the sole of his boots, they didn’t appear to be in poor repair. Rather it
appeared that overcoat was worn as a badge of honor and even more so as armor,
to keep the world at bay.
Lovely work, Lynda Cox!
Here is a bit about the guest of honor.
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Lynda J. Cox will tell anyone who will listen that she was
born at least one hundred and fifty years too late, and most definitely in the
wrong part of the country. She holds a master’s degree in English with a
concentration in creative writing from Indiana State University after earning
her BA from the same university as a non-traditional student. (Think being old
enough to be mom to 90% of the students in her freshman cadre.) She’s kept busy
with two spoiled rotten house cats, a 30 plus year old Arabian gelding who has
been nicknamed “Lazarus” for his ability in the later years of his life to
escape death, and quite a few champion collies. When she isn’t writing, she can
be found on the road, travelling to the next dog show. She loves to chat about
books, the writing life, and the insanity which is called a “dog show” and can
be reached through her Facebook page at www.facebook.com/LyndaJCox.
Social Media Links:
www.facebook.com/LyndaJCox (Facebook)
https://twitter.com/#!/LyndaCox (Twitter handle)
lyndajcox.com (web site)
Enter the Amazing GIVEAWAY!
