Darnay Road (41 page)

Other Titles By Diane Munier

Me
and Mom Fall for Spencer
Available now as Kindle e-book:

The
house next door to Sarah and her mother Marie has been vacant since the murder
that happened there when Sarah was ten. Their neighbor, Frieda, was like a
second mother to Sarah and she died brutally and that event sends a paralysis
over this sleepy neighborhood that hasn't lifted for seventeen years. Imagine
Sarah’s surprise when the old place finally sells to an on-line buyer. She
looks through the thick growth separating her house from the other and a wild
man looks back. He’s thirty-seven year old Spencer Gundry. Once he shaves the
beard and gets a haircut, he’s not hard to look at. Well Sarah’s mom doesn’t
think so. And maybe she doesn't either. Problem is, Sarah has evolved into the
neighborhood watchdog and she knows this tumbleweed Gundry has as many secrets
as the house he owns.

Finding
My Thunder
Available now as Kindle e-book

The
story takes place in the late sixties. Hilly Grunier has been in love with
Danny Boyd since she was a kid telling scary stories on summer nights at the
fire hydrant while Danny pulled close on his bike. But when Danny is thirteen,
their friendship ends when he and his brother Sukey have a vicious fight over
Hilly. Years pass, and Hilly carries a secret and growing love as she watches
Danny rise athletically to the top of their school’s food chain. He even dates
the prom queen and rumor says they are engaged. Now Danny has graduated and
shows up in her dad’s shop looking for some temporary employment until the army
picks him off for Vietnam. He’s thrown aside his college scholarship and the
golden girl. He seems to be searching for something new before he leaves town.
He seems to be searching for her. Hilly can’t let him go overseas without
showing him how she feels. But once he’s gone, her own battle intensifies. It’s
a long road to finding her thunder.

My
Wounded Soldier Book One: Fight for Glory
Coming Soon

1866

All
across the country men are drifting home from the war. But when Tom Tanner
musters out, he doesn’t plan to go home. He has been working in the brickyard
in Springfield trying to save enough money to buy a rig and head west. He’s not
expecting his father to show up and plead with him to return to the farm. After
the horrible loss of his older brother, Tom doesn’t feel worthy of the family’s
company. But his guilt won’t allow him to cause them more pain and so he goes
home for one last visit. It’s hard to find normal around the folks. The work of
harvest provides the perfect distraction. Once the crops as in he’ll go so far
away they’ll never have to look at him again. But his plans are challenged one day.
Tom is working in the field when the neighbor boy, Johnny, comes running for
help. What Tom finds at the neighbor’s home is a scene right out of the war.
But it’s not just about killing. The Missus Addie Varn, is ready to birth. Tom
wants to run, and he will come fall, but now he must roll up his sleeves and
play midwife.

Enjoy
this Excerpt from
My Wounded Soldier: Fight for Glory

Chapter
One

Tom
Tanner, 1866

I
would never look at a field the same again. For all of life seemed different to
me now. I did not trust the quiet. It used to stretch on, when I was young. But
now I did not trust it at all, and knew it held all of the ingredients for the
chaos that could come so quickly, in a turn, a moment. Death.

I
had just finished the bread and meat Ma had packed for me in the wagon. That
soft white bread I could not stuff myself with enough to silence my thoughts or
fill the empty craving, the aching inner prisoner that rattled my cage and said
I wasn’t worthy of the bread, the hands that kneaded it with hope, nor the fire
that baked it.

I
was no sooner done with my hourly, minute-by-minute chaw of self-loathing when
I picked up a call that was not bird, nor beast. It was a young voice. Too
young for such a pitch, such a word, my name.

It
was not my brother Garrett. But I heard him sometimes…on the wind. Smelled him,
too. Saw him in some men…tall ones, strong like him, walking loosely and free. But
this call was younger, and I thought I heard it again.

I
rounded the wagon and saw him. A lad coming on, running. “Mr. Tanner,” he
cried. I hurried to meet him. “My ma,” was all he could say, over and over,
hands on his knees. But when he got going, I picked him up and ran for the
wagon. Though I could not clearly understand him, I heard enough of the words I
hoped to never hear again. Soldiers and guns and killing.

He
was the Varn boy, the one who favored the mother. He was dark and freckled, big
brown eyes. I had seen her at church, but I did not stare. I saw very few, but
she had rattled me enough that I took note. Only because my ma went on. My
sister too. There was Jesus and the Mrs. Varn.

But
now…the lad sat beside me, as I nudged this old mule to do more than saunter. She
was past her prime and in no hurry. I’d only brought her today because the work
was light.

I
watched the boy from the corner of my eye. He stared ahead, a white grip on the
seat.

I
wished my ma was here. The boy had told the story then stopped talking
altogether. I didn’t think I could send him to the farm on his own. He looked
spent, and if there was trouble, he shouldn’t be trouncing around until I
understood what to look for. I had my rifle, I was rarely without it. So the
boy needed to stay near.

I
pulled up to a gruesome scene. The boy was keening, a bad sound. He was rocking
on the seat. I told him to lie in the bed of the wagon. I spoke firmly, and
made him look at me.

But
he pointed to the porch, and there was his ma, her dark hair spread around her
spent form. She looked tossed on that porch like a rag doll. I lost my breath
for fear she was dead, too, but she moaned then and started to move.

So
I grabbed that boy from the seat and all but tossed him in the wagon’s bed. “Lay
still. Soon’s I can I’ll help you out. Don’t be afraid. I’m here now.” I took
my rifle and went to the woman. I could tell the men were gone.

Holy
cow she was big with child. Looked ready to foal and with the moaning. I needed
Ma. There was no possibility…I’d rather face those dead bodies any day.

I
knelt by her side. She opened her eyes and said my name. I couldn’t have been
more surprised if she was dead.

I
stood my rifle against the house, also retrieved her shotgun and did the same. Then
I scooped her up because she wasn’t heavy at all, light like my sister, not
nearly like the dead body of a full grown man.

I
pushed through the door with my shoulder, looking at her, so pretty and looking
like almighty hell. This poor thing. I went to the bed in the far corner and
laid her on the quilt. I ran to the door then. “Boy,” I called, grabbing the
weapons, “Get on in here.” When he didn’t show I said more firmly, “Boy!”

He
popped up then and scrambled over, hitting the dirt hard, but on his feet, and
he came running. I wanted him in the house where I could make sure he was safe.
This woman didn’t need to lose another while birthing. Dear God, birthing. Just
me and her and the big blue sky.

So
I set that boy a job. I had him peel about six potatoes so she’d have some soup
when she got through pushing out this baby. And I wanted his mind to stay. Setting
a task was the way to nail him to something real.

Then
I hung a quilt from the rafters to block his view. I fed her a little water,
but she was poorly. I debated sending that kid over to get Ma, but my gut said
don’t do it. So I rubbed my hands together, and took off her shoes. She had
little feet and I blushed seeing them so small and dainty in my hand. I did not
know my preference for little toes before now, but another pain gripped her and
I came to my senses and repented as I told her I was sorry, but she couldn’t
have a baby wearing her bloomers. So being careful to keep the skirt in place,
I tried to reach beneath its bulk and get a hold of the bloomers, which were
split so she could make water, and she already had, lost the water, but still I
knew this was going to get real messy, so I pulled her bloomers down, and tears
came to my eyes I swear thinking of the after, that’s if we both lived through
this.

But
I got them off without seeing anything but her dainty legs shaped so fine I
could call myself nothing but sinner as I tried to blot out every idea I ever had
about procreating and such.

I
checked on Johnny and he sat at table hacking at those potatoes. I told him to
fetch some carrots too, and work on those and I wanted them done right. I felt
so guilty, and I don’t know why seeing as I didn’t ask for any of this. But God
was always giving it to me anyway and I didn’t deserve nothing good, but what a
fix.

I
got a rag and the whole bucket of water and told him, “Don’t be looking out
that window neither.” Cause I didn’t want him studying his pa that a way.

I
went behind the curtain, and she was worse it seemed, eyes closed and
whimpering, and I wet the rag and washed her face, then her neck she was so
sweaty and distressed. I was speaking soft to her, saying embarrassing things I
thought might soothe her, I didn’t know. But I’d talked to a dying man or two
and it served me now.

In
the next hour we got past it all. Her skirt was completely off and on the
floor. I had her knees bent, and was constantly having to bring her leg out of
the way. She was screaming and writhing, then so silent I feared she was dead. Her
woman parts were widening so swollen and looking ready to pop. I had seen
animals birth…all my life. So this was not so different, and so very different.

I
was studying down there, praying for that head to show. She was such a fragile
looking thing, so dainty, and yet so strong, I shuddered to think how she hurt.
I never wanted to see such pain again, but here it was, and I told myself it
was good. If she lived.

I
hoped I didn’t have to reach up there and turn it around. I’d had my arm up a
cow or two, even a horse, but there was no way I could mess around in this tiny
woman, and hurt her like that…, “Oh God, I know my prayers are rotten to
you…but for her sake….”

Her
little head was thrashing. “Tom,” she screamed.

And
then a miracle happened, and I could see the head. She opened up, and I saw the
child’s hair. “Missus,” I said, “you’re doin’ so fine, girl. You’re so fine. Just
push it out now, it’s just like it should be, honey.” I was so danged relieved
I could have danced a jig if I wasn’t afraid she was going to rip apart and
bleed to death on my watch.

Her
little parts were straining, parting like the Red Sea, and before I knew it a
bigger oval of the infant’s hair showed.

“That’s
it, honey. You’re the strongest woman I know. My ma would be so proud of you. You’re
almost there now, darlin’ girl. Don’t you be afraid. You’ve got to push. Put
some muscle in it now.”

“She
grit her teeth, and I gave her my hand, and she squeezed the juice out of it,
and I kept telling her to come on like she was pulling the plow through mud and
stone, and she pushed and I had to let go and catch this baby. Its whole head
and shoulders were out now, and I turned it gentle as I eased it out of her,
and my life got washed in one moment, and I knew that somehow God was telling
me I wasn’t the most miserable bastard that ever lived. Cause I had touched
heaven, and done a good thing…like a priest or some-such.

So
I set that baby on her mama’s stomach, and Missus looked at that girl and
laughed a little, then at me, and I had this life cord and the business still
running into her to deal with, but for a moment, we just looked at each other
and she said, “Thank you.”

And
I said…nothing in the face of such beauty as that mother and her child. I
couldn’t speak.

About
the Author

Living
comfortably in the heart of America with the people I love. I live an
extroverted life, but I'm a genuine introvert. An urban kid, I spent much of my
youth running in various neighborhood establishments. There I met many colorful
characters and I learned to love them and be fascinated by them. My love of
story comes from them. I learned to sit on a bar stool or a kitchen chair or in
a pew and hear story. Hear the voices telling story. See the mouths move and
the hands clutching glasses or cigarettes. See and hear the laughter. There is
no greater honor than to hear someone's story. If you feel that way about the
tales I tell...what more could I ask.