Page 18 of The Heart’s Charge

Setting her shoulders, she slowly unfolded from her kneeling position and gained her feet. He was just a man, for heaven’s sake. A friend, even. One didn’t desert one’s friends. At least not without an extremely good reason. And while preserving her sanity had seemed a viable justification when Mark appeared in her doorway oozing charm and chivalry, now that her more mature self had retaken command of a mind temporarily infected by a sixteen-year-old girl’s panic, she could admit that she’d taken the wrong path.

Time to correct her course.

She glanced at the clock on the parlor mantel and gasped when she spied the hour hand nearly atop the five. Good heavens! An hour? Her mother would be horrified by the extent of her rudeness. She’d left the parlor a handful of times to check on the children, but she’d made a point to use the front door in order to avoid the kitchen. Of course, by now the kitchen was probably empty. Mark had no doubt abandoned the potatoes minutes after she’d abandoned him. But where had he gone? She would have heard him had he moved about in the house. Yet she hadn’t spotted him in the yard either. He must have retired to the barn and the company of his horse. A friend who wouldn’t bolt the moment they were alone together.

Another sigh escaped her before she stiffened. Fisting her hands, Katherine lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders. No more sighing. If she could face down closed-minded charity matrons and bigoted bankers without cowering, she could converse with Mark Wallace.

Barely two steps into her march of redemption, the piercing call of a horn echoed through the house. Short staccato notes. Immediately recognizable. A set of low notes followed by a set of higher notes before returning to the lower. Katherine ran to the kitchen and peered out the side window just in time to see the children charging out of the barn. Mark brought up the rear, a bugle in his hand.

He still played. Her heart leapt. When he joined the Army, she thought she’d driven him away from music altogether. God had gifted Mark with an incredible facility for music. Believing she had inadvertently stolen that gift from him had left her morose and depressed for months after he’d left. Lingering guilt was probably what sent her into hiding today too. But she should have known better. A gift bestowed by God couldn’t be stolen by man. Or woman. It might be neglected or stifled, but never stolen. The Lord had simply provided a new way for Mark to put it to use.

As he was doing with her children. They sat around his feet, attention rapt as he spoke, excitement building as he raised the bugle to his mouth and played a different tune. One that ran up and down the scale so quickly she felt like she should jump into some sort of action.

He stopped playing, then gave some instruction she couldn’t hear but could easily guess when all of the children lay down. He played the tune again, and the children jumped up from the ground and started pantomiming something that resembled the making of a bed before standing up stiff and straight and giving a salute.

A delighted laugh bubbled out of her.

“‘Reveille.’”

Katherine bit her lip and turned away from the window. He was so good at creating fun and putting people at ease. Even children, apparently. He would make a wonderful father someday. A pang low in her belly brought an unexpected tear to her eye, but she blinked it away. She had potatoes to peel.

Except she didn’t. The worktable was clean. No potatoes, peelings, or even a knife in evidence. Only the pot. She stepped close and peeked inside. That man. Going above and beyond the call of duty. Not only had he prepped the potatoes, he’d cleaned up after himself. He deserved so much more than a woman too afraid to dredge up the past that she neglected him in the present. At the very least, he deserved a proper thank-you.

Resolved, Katherine marched out the back door and into the yard, where Mark was retrieving a toy horse from the elm tree. How it came to be there in the first place, she couldn’t imagine.

“The next bugle call is the stable call.” He walked halfway to the barn, used the heel of his boot to draw a rectangle in the dirt, then placed the wooden horse inside. “After a trooper wakes up, his next duty is to see to his horse.”

He lifted the bugle, pursed his lips, and blew. She hadn’t heard this call before. It moved up the scale in stairstep fashion, but on each platform note, he tongued a complex, exceedingly fast rhythm that exhibited impressive technical skill. He might actually be better now than when he’d been training for the symphony.

She hung back, not wanting to interrupt or distract from the game. Plus, she enjoyed watching him. Listening to him play. Remembering the happy times they’d shared. The laughter. The music.

“When a soldier hears this call, he hurries to the picket line to muck out the area and feed, hay, and groom his mount. So when you hear this call, I want you to hurry to our picket area here and pretend you’re wielding a pitchfork. Yes! Just like Abner’s doing.”

Soon all the kids were mimicking Abner’s shoveling charade.

Mark sounded the stable call. A herd of children descended upon the toy horse and mucked for all they were worth.

“Excellent! You all would make perfect troopers. The next call was always my favorite because it meant it was time to eat.” Mark pooched out his flat belly and thumped it like a drum. “Mmm.”

The kids giggled. Katherine grinned.

“Where do you normally eat dinner?” Mark quizzed the assembly.

“Kitchen!” Quill called out as he pointed a chubby finger at the precise location where Katherine was standing.

“The kitchen. Right!” Mark pivoted toward the house, and his gaze stumbled onto Katherine. He fell silent for a moment, his eyes locked on hers, before he recalled the game and turned his attention back to the children. “When you hear this next call, run to Miss Katherine and pretend to eat a bowl full of”—he glanced over his shoulder at her and winked—“potatoes.”

Katherine’s face warmed, but she held her ground and gave him a nod of concession. She deserved that gentle jab.

The game continued for a good thirty minutes. Mark played different calls—“Reveille,” “Stable Call,” “Mess Call,” and “Taps”—while the kids tried to keep them straight and act out the appropriate charade. At first there was much confusion. Most of the kids just waited for Abner to act and followed him. But by the end their confidence had grown, and they were soon racing each other to see who could get to the correct station first.

Mark drew the game to a close with a final call for “Taps.” The mournful sound echoed through the evening air as the children dropped to the ground and pretended to sleep.

Ruby was the first to sit up. “Can you play any other songs? Like ‘Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush’?”

Mark sat on the ground and crossed his legs in front of him. “I could if I had my valve trumpet.” He wiggled his fingers above the midsection of the bugle. “It has . . . buttons, I guess you could call them. When you push the buttons in different combinations, you can play any note a song could have. Bugles like this one, though, can only play five notes.” He laid the bugle in his lap and grinned at Ruby. “But we can sing your song!” He inhaled an exaggerated, and impressively loud, breath and launched into a rousing rendition of “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush.”

After that, every child clamored to pick a song. Mary’s little lamb made an appearance, followed by London’s bridge. But when Ted picked “Home on the Range,” hilarity ensued. Mark gave the most melodramatic performance she’d ever seen, his mournful cowboy so comically wretched, the children laughed more than sang along.