Excerpt from The Angel of Devil's Camp, by Lynna Banning....

     Mary Margaret pulled the parsonage door shut with a satisfying thunk and for the very last time twisted the key in the lock. She'd married off five sisters in the past three years, the last one just day before yesterday. Now, it is my turn.

     She marched down the walkway and out the front gate, lugging her satchel. For half a heartbeat, she wavered. The yellow rambling rose along the fence needed pruning, but with all the preparations for Charlotte's wedding, she'd had no time for gardening. She forced her gaze away. It no longer mattered.

     She smoothed down her black traveling dress, slipping her hand into the left pocket. The letter she'd carefully folded crackled under her fingers. Dear God in heaven, let this be the right thing to do.

     She heaved the tapestry bag into the buggy and climbed up onto the sagging seat. I will not look back. I will look to the road ahead and be joyful.

     At last! She was free. No more meals to eke out from the squash and dried beans donated by the congregation. No more wedding dresses cobbled together out of old tablecloths and scraps of lace for Charity or Lydia or Charlotte. She had remade most of her old ball gowns into dresses for her sisters and sold the rest for food. A barrel of flour cost $150 Federal dollars, a basket of eggs, $25. The war had made such a struggle of life!

     She closed her eyes and pressed her knuckles against her lips. The war took everything, even our hearts and our souls. She and her sisters had survived, but the scars would always remain.

     Leaning forward, she patted the satchel at her feet. Inside, on top of her spare petticoat and her nightgown, lay her father's revolver. She would travel three thousand miles, all the way to Oregon, to marry a second cousin of her father's, a man she had never seen. It was the only proposal she had ever received, and she certainly intended to arrive in one piece!

     She gathered up the worn leather reins. "Move on, Bess." The mare took a single step forward, and Meggy's heart took flight.

*          *          *

     "Colonel, darlin', wake up!"

     Jane sat bolt upright. Tom rolled over on the narrow canvas cot and opened one eye. "What is it, O'Malley?"

     "The deed needs doin'," his former sergeant said. "And you're the proper one to do it."

      Tom groaned. Being in charge didn't let him sleep much. A logging crew wasn't like an army unit. Loggers were a fractious bunch of misfits with a heightened taste for liquor and high times. Not one of them would last a day under military discipline.

      Tom had mustered out two years ago, taken Sergeant O'Malley with him and headed west. The undisciplined men he commanded now obeyed him because he wasn't a colonel.

     "Tom." The Irishman nudged his shoulder. "You won't be forgettin' now, will you?"

     With an effort, Tom sat up. His head felt like someone was whacking a peavy into his skull, and the aftertaste of whiskey in his mouth made him grit his teeth. He figured his breath alone could get a man drunk.

      "Remind me what it is that needs doing, Mick? If it can wait, let it."

     "The peeler, the one that got killed yesterday? The coffin's ready, and Swede and Turner's dug the grave. You need to speak some words over the man."

     Oh, hell, he had forgotten. Wanted to forget, in fact. Which is why he'd finished half a bottle of rye last night. In the past month he'd lost one, no two bull-cooks and a skinner. The timber was turning dry as a witch's broom and then one of his peelers, a square peg on a logging crew if he ever saw one, let an axe slice into his thigh and bled to death before they could load him into the wagon.

      "The men are waitin', Tom."