Every man in Mandy Gates' life had proven himself untrustworthy. From her worthless father to her friend's abusive husband, Mandy couldn't see that any man warranted the effort. That was until the handsome Civil War re-enactor, Bronson Reilly, entered and kept re-entering her world in the most unusual ways. Would fate's relentless matchmaking finally persuade Mandy's heart to trust?

Chapter 1

 Mandy Gates jogged through the park, her cross trainers slapping the wet pavement as the rain drizzled down her cheeks and arms. Her drenched dark brown hair, pulled back in a pony tail swayed back and forth with each step she took. Faintly through the Saturday morning mist, she could discern the headlights of an approaching automobile. As the beams broke through the fog and the car passed her, the driver waved and Mandy returned the greeting.

Again alone on the road, Mandy chuckled to herself as she pondered upon park etiquette. Anywhere else in town, you’d pass someone without acknowledgement, but in the Chickamauga Battlefield there was this unspoken rule. You always wave at joggers, walkers or bikers in the park - to refuse to do so would be just plain rude. Where would be your Southern hospitality to pass a jogger and not wave? Or to jog by a car and not acknowledge the driver?

Perhaps it was the old South which the park symbolized – those days gone by when people knew all their neighbors, looked out for each other, cooked boat loads of fried chicken, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes and gravy and showed respect with a string of “yes Ma’am's and no Sirs.”

Lost in her thoughts of how much society had changed since her grandmother’s time, Mandy rounded the corner and came upon a rider dressed in full Confederate uniform atop a brown bay. Mandy halted abruptly and the rider, being just as surprised to see a young woman in front of him, pulled the reins and the horse pranced about momentarily and stopped.

“Mornin’, Ma’am,” he greeted in a rich deep Southern drawl as he tipped his hat and nodded. His dark brown eyes twinkled in the early morning light and dimples appeared on his unshaven cheeks, the day’s beard growth matching the shortly cropped dark brown hair on his head.

“Good morning,” her eyes caught his and then traveled over his gray uniform.

“Sorry to startle you, Ma’am,” he smiled and pulled a toothpick from his lips.

“So you’re a re-enactor?” Mandy stated the obvious.

“Yes, Ma’am, my regiment’s just right up here at Widow Glenn’s,” he pointed his toothpick in the direction in which he was traveling. Just as he did so, a flash of lightning cracked, followed by an immediate roll of deafening thunder. Mandy flinched and looked up at the dark gray clouds in the direction of the lightning bolt.

“You really shouldn’t be jogging out in this, Ma’am,” he pointed his toothpick at her and then toward the sky from which immediately dropped a sheet of rain. “Here!” he tossed his toothpick aside and stretched out his hand to her.

“What?” she looked at him puzzled.

He shook his outstretched palm, “Come on. Let me give you a ride to shelter.”

Mandy hesitated and then another lightning bolt struck dangerously close to their position. She placed her soaked palm in his and he pulled her into the saddle behind him in one powerful swoop. Immediately the stranger nudged his horse’s ribs and the animal bolted off the main road and into the woods. With the sudden jolt, Mandy grabbed the stranger’s waist holding onto the scratchy wool uniform and leaned her head against his broad shoulders as the horse leapt over fallen tree trunks and darted amidst the lush green forest. The rain continued to pour, the lightning to flash and the thunder to rumble. Mandy found her heart racing – not from the jogging she’d been doing prior to meeting the stranger in the middle of the road – but from the sheer exhilaration of finding herself on the back of a horse with a Civil War soldier in a thunder storm.

Her imagination, already aroused by her previous thoughts, needed no nudging to leap into a daydream that she was a maiden in distress being rescued by a gallant southern gentleman. When the horse approached a small shed, the stranger quickly leapt from the horse, tied it to a tree, put his hands on Mandy’s waist and lifted her effortlessly from the horse’s back. Grasping her hand, he guided her to the small shelter. It was hardly more than a lean-to – three sides and an angular roof made of old boards.

Just as they stepped under the shelter, lightning struck a nearby tree and it fell in a deafening crash not fifty feet in front of the structure. The horse whinnied and pranced about nervously. Without thought, Mandy flung her arms around the soldier’s uniformed waist and buried her head in his broad, wool-clad shoulder. He patted her back gently.

“It’s all right,” he whispered in a low comforting tone. Noting her shivering shoulders, the man removed his wool coat and draped it over Mandy’s soaked navy t-shirt. She looked down at herself – her rain drenched cross trainers, crew socks, bare legs, spandex running shorts cut to her thighs, and a floppy Blood Assurance t-shirt now covered by a gray Confederate soldier’s coat.

The rain continued to pour, but the delay between lightning and thunder increased, indicating that the storm was moving away from the area. Mandy retrieved her arms from around the stranger and extended her hand to him, “I’m Mandy Gates.”

“Bronson Reilly,” the re-enactor appeared to be in his late twenties and evidently worked out at a gym, for with his coat removed his white shirt refused to mask his muscular form.

“So are you re-enacting the Battle of Chickamauga?” she looked up into his big brown eyes.

“Preparing for it. It’s not for another month or so – September 18-21^st,” he replied.

“That’s right, I forgot,” she looked out at the rain splattering on the leaves.

“It’s starting to lighten up. I’ll give you a ride back to your car,” he offered.

“That’s ok, maybe just a lift back to where you found me.”

He stepped out from under the lean-to, untied the horse and motioned for her to join him. He helped her atop the animal and climbed into the saddle in front of her. Since the rain had become only a slight drizzle, he took the horse at an easy gait back to the main road to where he’d found her. Then stopping at the side of the road, he inquired, “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to your car?”

“My car’s not in the park. I live over in a neighborhood just outside the park.”

“Then a ride home?” he offered.

Mandy could just see herself riding up on the back of a Confederate soldier’s horse and having nosey Mrs. Wallington quizzing her for weeks. Her neighbor constantly coaxed her to find herself a husband, settle down and have a family. At twenty-six, Mandy was satisfied with teaching history and math at the local middle school and had little interest in getting involved with anyone. She’d seen too many people she cared about fall victim to doomed relationships. She wouldn’t be joining their ranks.

“No thanks, just let me off over here at Delores Lane and I’ll jog the rest of the way. I don’t want to hold you up.”

“It’s no trouble, Ma’am,” he offered again.

“Really, just let me off down here at Delores. I’ll be fine. I don’t live far from here.”

The horse trotted onward and when they reached her road, he stopped and put out his arm to help her descend.

“Thank you so much for the ride, Mr. Reilly,” she pulled his coat from her shoulders and raised it to him.

“You’re most welcome, Mrs. – is it Mrs. Gates?” he took the coat and put it on.

“Miss – Miss Gates,” she started to back away from the horse and its handsome rider.

“Enjoy your day,” he smiled and tipped his hat.

“You too, thanks again!” she called as she turned to jog away.

The next week passed for Mandy in a blurring whirlwind of activity with open house at the middle school and a fizz of preparations before students arrived the second week of August. In those few moments when she’d catch a snippet of time to herself – usually at night just before drifting off to sleep – her imagination would wander to that rainy battlefield morning where she’d been held in the capable arms of her Confederate soldier. As she fell into slumber, her history teacher’s imagination carried the scene into an outlandish Civil War tale in which she was not simply being rescued from a thunderstorm, but from dangerous villains. The scenes playing on the stage of her mind always culminated in an ardent encounter with her irresistible rescuer.

Mandy stepped out of her small two-bedroom home and locked the door.

“Ready for the weekend, Mandy?” Mrs. Wallington’s kind elderly voice wafted through the air as she peeked over her rose bushes to greet her youthful neighbor.

“Yes, I am! It’s been a long first week of school,” Mandy flashed a grin and went to the garage to retrieve her bike. She lived close enough to the middle school that whenever the weather cooperated, she preferred riding to driving.

“You going out tonight?” Mrs. Wallington’s voice was filled with hope for the hopeless.

“No, ma’am. I’m renting a movie and kicking back in my PJ’s with some popcorn.” Mandy climbed aboard her bike.

“Too pooped to party – eh?” the silver-haired woman’s eyes followed Mandy to the edge of the driveway.

“You could say that,” Mandy waved over her shoulder, “Have a good day, Mrs. Wallington.”

“You too, dear!” the woman called and returned to her pruning.

Mandy rode to the school, locked her bike, and scurried into the building and up the steps to her classroom.

“Morning, Mandy!” Rachel Griffin, a tall, sandy-haired teacher in her mid thirties, peeked her head inside Mandy’s classroom.

“Hi Rachel!” Mandy greeted.

“Don’t forget about the change with fifth period today.” Rachel Griffin was the English teacher for seventh grade’s B team.

“That’s right… the historian’s coming today,” Mandy mumbled under her breath as she shuffled papers on her desk and then lifted her eyes back to the doorway. “Thanks for the reminder!” Rachel waved and disappeared down the hallway as students began trickling into Mandy’s room.

Grateful that it was Friday, Mandy sailed through her day looking forward to a relaxing weekend. The first week of school always took more energy to remember names and get to know new students. Mandy had learned that the rules she put into effect that first week would set the tone for the remainder of the school year. Seventh graders, still in the spit-ball and food-fight stage of life, were hard enough to handle even with well-defined rules. After four years of teaching, Mandy had learned that it was easier to be strict and then lighten up as the year progressed than to attempt the reverse. She felt satisfied with the level of respect her students showed her and expected a good year as a result.

By the time fifth period rolled around, both the students and the teachers were ready for the weekend. Jubilant that they were to obtain a reprieve from their typical last class of the day, the youth chattered excitedly as they entered the auditorium. Mandy took her place at the back of the room where it would be her task to keep rowdy youngsters in line.

Soon the principal appeared at the front of the auditorium, called the group to order and introduced their guest speaker – a local Civil War historian who would be showing them a collection of artifacts and memorabilia and sharing what it would have been like to live through the war. Mandy’s ears perked up and she motioned for two chattering teenage boys in the row ahead of her to be quiet. She knew from the last faculty meeting that a historian would be addressing the seventh graders, but the principal hadn’t specified a Civil War historian.

Mandy pulled the pen from behind her ear and prepared to take notes on the yellow legal pad in front of her. When she looked up next it was to see Bronson Reilly striding to the podium in his re-enactor’s uniform. Mandy’s breath caught and her eyes opened wide as her palms began to sweat. The imagery of her dreams flooded into her mind. She closed her eyes and shook her head in an effort to drive away the thought. If only her pulse would stop drumming in her ears, she might be able to concentrate on what he was saying. It was something about the war, she knew that much – yes what else would a Civil War historian be talking about? she scolded herself.

Mandy knew that he must be an excellent speaker – not because she registered anything that he said – but because the children were laughing at the humor he sprinkled throughout his presentation. They sat spellbound by his stories and eagerly examined the artifacts he passed them.

All Mandy could do was notice his cleanly shaved chiseled jaws, his deep brown almond-shaped eyes, his broad shoulders, his muscular build and the deep intonation of his voice which mesmerized her into another daydream of life in the 1860’s. Before she knew it, she rode with him on the back of his horse through the Battlefield as bullets whizzed by them. He spurred his horse and guided it abruptly to the right through a thicket, under a low hanging limb, and over a fence.

Suddenly he stopped the horse and pulled her from its back, into a bunker where he shielded her protectively with his body and gunfire rent the air. He settled his rifle atop the rise and opened fire. A flurry of shots ensued. She lowered herself into the trench.  Leaning her back against the embankment, she hunched low as he continued to defend them against their assailants. Finally there was silence. He slid down, leaning his back against the embankment beside her and resting his rifle across his knees. He put his arms protectively around her, assuring that she remained unharmed.

Those big brown eyes gazed into hers as he held her securely in his powerful arms. Mandy could feel the warmth of his breathe on her lips and her mouth watered in anticipation of his kiss when…

“Mandy,  you gonna sit here all day?” Rachel put her hand on Mandy’s shoulder and nudged her. She looked around and nearly half of the students had already cleared the auditorium. Regaining her bearings, Mandy glanced up at Rachel and then to the podium where Bronson stood talking with principal Boynton.

“Are you ok?” Rachel asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I was just in my own little world,” Mandy chuckled nervously.

“I figured you’d be enraptured by that historian’s facts and stories, but you don’t look like you listened to a word he said.” Rachel noted with surprise that Mandy’s legal pad lacked her usual copious notes. Mandy rarely missed an opportunity to learn something that would help her in her career. She loved to learn little tidbits of history and make it come alive for her students, or discover a new way to teach math where her students could better understand it. But today, Mandy’s mind was clearly elsewhere.

“Oh, I was enraptured enough,” Mandy rose from her seat and smiled playfully at her friend as she put her back to the podium.

Rachel looked from Mandy to Bronson and back. Her eyes widened with understanding. “You mean…”

“Uh huh,” Mandy nodded affirmatively.

“Your re-enactor?” Rachel breathed in hushed astonishment.

Mandy nodded affirmatively. “I need to get out of here,” she whispered as her eyes searched for the best exit.

“Are you kidding? You can’t let him leave without talking to him!”

“Oh yes I can,” she insisted and stepped past Rachel to make her way out the back of the auditorium.

Rachel shook her head in frustration and returned to where she’d sat during the lecture and gathered her notebook. When she reached the isle, Bronson stood in front of her.

“Mr. Reilly, I enjoyed your presentation,” Rachel smiled and extended her hand in greeting.

“Thank you, I’m glad you liked it,” he nodded as he gave her a firm handshake.

“You really kept their attention. You should be a teacher,” she added.

“Thanks,” he smiled and still stood blocking her way.

 “Can I help you with something?” she inquired.

“I noticed you were talking with Ms. Gates. Could you please tell me where her room is?”

Rachel tried to contain the enthusiastic smile that threatened to burst from her lips. Putting on her best disinterested expression she gave him the room number and directions. Thanking her, he shifted his crate of gear under his right arm and left.

Mandy stood at her desk gathering test papers to take home and grade over the weekend. She quickly shoved them in her briefcase, flipped off the lights, shut the door, entered the hallway, descended the stairs, and exited the building to find her bicycle. Just as she left, Bronson arrived at room 243 and peered through the small rectangular window. Finding the room dark inside, he jiggled the locked doorknob, dropped his hand to his side and left.

Join the Clean Romance Club to Read the Full Story 

CleanRomanceClub.com is a Project of CES Business Consultants and Distractions, Inc.
TEL: 800-524-2307 * CleanRomanceClub@pwgroup.com
Copyright 2004, All Rights Reserved.