Hope by Lori Copeland

her on a blanket and started a fire. Then he took off in search of the stream. Huddling close to the snapping fire, she watched his tall form disappear into the undergrowth. Goose bumps swelled, and she rubbed her arms, uneasy when he was gone.
    Within the hour he returned, whistling and carrying his catch. She smiled at the sight of the large bass. Dan Sullivan’s woman would never fear for her next meal.
    “Breakfast,” he announced with a cocky grin.
    “Congratulations.”
    Squatting, he piled more brush on the fire and grinned up at her. “Dan, you incredible man, you. How did you get so good at catching fish with your hands? she asks.”
    She blushed at his teasing.
    “Well, thank you, Miss Kallahan. I hoped you’d notice my exceptional sporting skills. I got good at catching fish with my hands during the war. Many nights our company would have gone hungry if we hadn’t devised our own means of providing food.”
    “You fought in the war?”
    “Yes, ma’am, for way too long.” A mask dropped over his features, and she realized she’d touched on a painful subject.
    They chatted while he cleaned then skewered the fish and hung it over the flames. They talked briefly about the War between the States and the terrible atrocities it brought upon the people. Kentucky had tried to remain neutral, Dan told her, but that wasn’t possible.
    “How do you know so much about Kentucky?”
    “Had a good friend who lived here.”
    “Is he here now?”
    “He’s buried in Lexington.”
    “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Do you ever feel as if the world is spinning out of control?” She sensed his smile, though he had his back to her.
    “Occasionally.”
    “I never had, until recently. I thought God would keep me safe from all harm.”
    Lately, God had challenged those thoughts. He never promised there’d be no trials, but somehow she’d just expected her life to be different. Adversity happened to others, not to her. Not until Papa died. Or until she and her sisters split up, and she didn’t know when, if ever, she’d see them again. Or until Big Joe took her hostage.
    “No one is protected from trouble, Hope. Not on this earth,” he said quietly.
    They shared the moist, tasty bass, and then Hope slept the day away. She was vaguely aware of Dan keeping watch as he dozed intermittently, but she was too tired to insist that he rest while she guarded their small sanctuary. Toward evening, they finished the last of the fish before Dan doused the fire and saddled the horse.
    As twilight faded, they rode on, pausing the second night only long enough to rest the horse and drink from icy cold streams. By the time the sun came up the third morning, although Hope was still reeling with exhaustion, the healing rays were warm on her face, and she thanked God for a new day.
    Dan’s soft warning jarred her from her lethargic state. “Let me do the talking,” he said quietly.
    Half-asleep, she started at the sound of his voice. “What—what is it?”
    “There’s a wagon coming.”
    Her heart raced. Would they be discovered? Why didn’t he cut off the road? “Big Joe?”
    “No, Joe wouldn’t use a wagon. Probably a farmer on his way to town.”
    A team of sleek black horses came around the bend, and Hope spotted an old man and woman sitting on the spring seat of a short wagon. The woman’s pale hair, shot with silver, had come loose from her bonnet. Her body was more square than angular. The old man looked exactly like her— bookends, Hope thought, except for the rim of snow white hair protruding wildly from beneath the battered hat he wore low over his lined face. The wagon pulled even with Dan and clattered to a halt.
    Smiling, the old man showed a row of uneven, yellow teeth.
    “Howdy. You folks are out purty early, ain’t ya?”
    Dan eased Hope down from the back of the horse. She straightened, working the kinks out of her back. She was grateful for the brief reprieve. The old couple looked harmless