Darke Valley
Spring 2027
Prologue
July 1815
It was late afternoon when he drew his bay mare to a halt at the verge of the high, rocky bluff. Pulling off his battered hat, he took in the stepped, forested western foothills of the Appalachians, blue hazed, the ridges undulating away on every side toward the distant horizon.
Low in the western sky, the sun cast racing cloud-shadows across the patchwork of fields and pasture and woodland that spread out below him. The vista appeared hauntingly peaceful, but more of the land had been cleared, with farms now dotting it more thickly than he remembered, primeval forest and native inhabitants steadily receding before the inexorable influx of settlers.
For some moments he sat motionless in the saddle, hair and clothing wind ruffled, tracing the creek-edged dirt road below as far as he could see between remaining stands of oak and maple, black locust, ash, and buckeye, where coming night already pooled.
Darke Valley.
Named for the man who held its largest land grant, his father, Edmond, it lay three leagues north of the Ohio River and west of one of its tributaries, the Siota. In the latter direction he glimpsed the stone mansion through cloaking trees, suspended in memory unchanged, though he knew it would not be so in reality.
His mare shook her head and pawed the ground. Tightening his fingers on the reins, he quieted the animal.
Five long years gone. More than four of which he’d received no word from his family. Not even when he’d finally regained his freedom and could write to assure them he still lived.
Years when he’d despaired of life. Followed by years of warfare on the high seas, wreaking vengeance. All that had kept him from surrender to darkness had been a waning hope that one day he’d make it home. To Mariah.
If she still waited.
And loved.
Copyright 2026 by J. M. Hochstetler. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, audio recording, or any other form whatsoever—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
It was late afternoon when he drew his bay mare to a halt at the verge of the high, rocky bluff. Pulling off his battered hat, he took in the stepped, forested western foothills of the Appalachians, blue hazed, the ridges undulating away on every side toward the distant horizon.
Low in the western sky, the sun cast racing cloud-shadows across the patchwork of fields and pasture and woodland that spread out below him. The vista appeared hauntingly peaceful, but more of the land had been cleared, with farms now dotting it more thickly than he remembered, primeval forest and native inhabitants steadily receding before the inexorable influx of settlers.
For some moments he sat motionless in the saddle, hair and clothing wind ruffled, tracing the creek-edged dirt road below as far as he could see between remaining stands of oak and maple, black locust, ash, and buckeye, where coming night already pooled.
Darke Valley.
Named for the man who held its largest land grant, his father, Edmond, it lay three leagues north of the Ohio River and west of one of its tributaries, the Siota. In the latter direction he glimpsed the stone mansion through cloaking trees, suspended in memory unchanged, though he knew it would not be so in reality.
His mare shook her head and pawed the ground. Tightening his fingers on the reins, he quieted the animal.
Five long years gone. More than four of which he’d received no word from his family. Not even when he’d finally regained his freedom and could write to assure them he still lived.
Years when he’d despaired of life. Followed by years of warfare on the high seas, wreaking vengeance. All that had kept him from surrender to darkness had been a waning hope that one day he’d make it home. To Mariah.
If she still waited.
And loved.
Copyright 2026 by J. M. Hochstetler. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, audio recording, or any other form whatsoever—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
