On the eleventh day of Christmas Anita gave to me . . .

A sweet tidbit from the Captain’s Rose . . .

“Tim,” Jayce said, going to his knees beside him. He carefully rolled him over just as Garret squatted down, holding the lamp nearby and Timothy’s face came into view. “Good heavens,” Jayce murmured. It was readily evident he’d been struck in the face only once, but it must have been good and hard, judging by the dark bruising around his eye and a deep cut that was bleeding profusely.
“Jayce,” Tim muttered, “what are you doing here?”
“I don’t know; call it destiny. Your father is here, too.”
Tim chuckled then groaned. “It must be destiny.”
“Where are you hurt?” Jayce asked gently.
“Everywhere,” Tim muttered, “but I don’t think . . . anything is . . . broken.”
“Do you think you can get onto a horse if we help you?” Garret asked.
“Yes,” Timothy said. Garret set the lamp on the ground, then Garret and Jayce helped him to his feet. Tim couldn’t stand up straight, but with support he did manage to mount Jayce’s horse. Jayce mounted behind him and put one arm around him to keep him in the saddle, then he rode at a smooth gait toward the house.