The mountain lion had nearly died. Otter’s medicinal power had been strong, and she had breathed life into him. Mischievous and playful, the otter represented Alice. After receiving her letter, Wil had checked the prison rosters. The black wolf was Prescott—trapped in Libby prison. But a new animal spirit had entered the scene. The master of trickery, a raven flew overhead.
When the guard opened the heavy-wood door to the pitch-black underground cell, the hinges creaked. The stench—men forced to live in their own wastes. Wil nearly gagged.
The guard raised a lantern. “See the one you’re looking for? We send ’em down here when they get too rambunctious for their own good.”
Three officers huddled against the wall with wrists and ankles shackled. Wil recognized Prescott on the right. “Get the chains off.”
“I don’t take orders from you, sir.”
“And I don’t take kindly to repeating commands. Get the chains off, or your name will feature prominently in my report to General Winder.” The guard spat but followed orders. Chains clanked to the dirt floor, and Wil bent down to the nearest officer. “Prescott...”
Sunken eyes looked up at him as Prescott rubbed his wrists. “Fancy meeting you here, Jackson. Been stealing any Federal supplies lately? A few of us around here sure could use them.”
“I’m sorry to report that I’ve given up that pastime, but I’ll see if there’s a way to hasten the exchange process.”
Prescott nodded that he appreciated the effort. “They’ve confiscated the letters I’ve written to Amanda. How is she?”
“As far as I know, she’s fine. I wasn’t informed of his name, but you have a son.”
Prescott lowered his head to his hands and wept.
Wil squeezed his arm and straightened. “What were these men’s infractions?”
The guard squared his shoulders defiantly. “You heard him. He writes letters, sayin’ things he shouldn’t. He don’t learn neither. Keeps breakin’ rules. Three days bread and water in isolation is lenient, sir.”
His voice edged on insubordination. Ignore it, or the guard might take his anger out on the prisoners after he left. For now there was nothing more that he could do. Wil turned to leave.
“Captain...” Prescott always referred to him by his rank before the war—out of respect. “Thank you.”
Without facing him, Wil responded, “I haven’t done anything.”
“You’ll do whatever you can.”
Whatever he can. The dream had warned him. He lacked any real authority, and his hands were tied—unless he determined the meaning of the raven.
Nightfall had arrived by the time Wil reined Poker up the tree-lined lane. A cold wind hinted at winter. Uncertain what sort of reception he would receive, he brought the blue roan to a halt in front of the farmhouse.
A rail had been constructed where the picket fence once stood. He dismounted and tied the gelding to it.
Alice stepped onto the front porch. “Wil?”
With her voice barely above a whisper, his thoughts returned to that hot June night. The day no longer seemed chilly.
Clasping her hands together, she approached him. “I wasn’t certain you had received my letter.”
He lowered his hat. “After receiving the transfer, my intent was to resign my commission. Peopeo died before I had the opportunity.”
Her face brightened with his confession.
A curtain fluttered in the front window, warning him that his actions were being monitored. “I have news of Prescott. If Amanda prefers that I remain outside, I can relay it here.”
“Don’t be silly. Come inside. Is Sam all right?”
Even with his iron stomach, he couldn’t rid himself of the stench from the old warehouse. They reached the porch, and Wil answered, “He’s alive.”
She let out a relieved breath. “Thank goodness.”
“Alice...” The words wouldn’t come. She faced him, and he traced the brim of his hat.
“Say what’s on your mind, Wil. You don’t usually hedge.”
“If I said what was on my mind, I’d likely be threatened with a shotgun again.”
She pressed a hand to her breast and giggled. “I missed you.”
Good reason abandoned him. He leaned down and kissed her.
The door opened behind them, and Alice stepped back, clasping her hands behind her back.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Amanda said. “Alice, where are your manners? Invite Wil in, so he can warm himself by the fire.”
Only emptiness registered in Amanda’s green eyes. The war had robbed her of much, and she wasn’t going to like what he had to tell her. As he stepped into the foyer, Alice took his hat and overcoat and hung them on pegs by the door, then led the way to the parlor. Delighted to be out of the cold, he held his hands near the warmth of the fire.
“I shall make something warm to drink,” Alice said, excusing herself.
Unaccustomed to awkward feelings, Wil watched her rush from the room in silence. He withdrew a wood carving in the shape of a horse from his pocket.
Amanda’s eyes brimmed with tears as she grasped it. “Where did you get this?”
“In Richmond. Yankee prisoners make them to buy food.”
Tears streaked her cheeks, and she clutched the figure in her hands. “Then he’s—he’s—”
“Alive in Libby prison.”
With her lower lip quivering, she swallowed noticeably. “Libby—you’ve seen him?”
“I have. Since visiting, I’ve had him monitored. He’s holding his own.”
“Take me to him.”
“I refuse to take a woman.”
Her eyes smoldered.
“Amanda, conditions are deplorable. Libby is overcrowded and rat infested. He wouldn’t want you to see him there.”
Her gaze softened. “So what do I do? Wait for it to get the best of him?”
“Our boys in the field face similar conditions.”
“That’s supposed to comfort me? Wil, what about an exchange?”
The frustration in her voice was evident, but posturing on both sides had broken down exchanges. He lowered his head. “One isn’t likely in the near future.” Though her dignity remained strong, she was too proud to come straight out and ask for his help. “Amanda, there is another way.”
She hugged the wood carving to her breast. “And that is?”
“With the overcrowding, the guards can’t be everywhere at once.”
Amanda’s eyes widened in horror. “I won’t hear of it. I can’t ask you to risk your life.”
“You didn’t ask.”
Skeptical, she raised an eyebrow. “Why are you suddenly helping me?”
His indiscretion with Alice had forced a wedge between them. “We’re friends.”
Her brow crept higher. “And?”
“I’d like to see Alice. I had hoped you might have changed your mind in that regard.”
“She’s of age. It’s not my place to interfere.”
“I had hoped for your approval.”
Her voice got louder. “My approval is not up for bargaining, and if you think you can gain it by helping Sam, then you’re sadly mistaken.”
He let out a weary breath. “Regardless of your position, I will help your husband. If you wish, I’ll leave.”
“Do you love her?”
Unable to openly confess something that he hadn’t come to terms with himself, Wil replied, “She’s kind and caring—very much like her sister.”
With a groan, Amanda closed her eyes.
“Amanda, I meant that as a compliment, but if we’re being totally honest, Alice is far better at swearing.”
A twinkle appeared in her eyes. “I should have known you’d like that trait, Wil Jackson. Papa spoiled her. He pretended not to hear when he should have been using the soap.” The tension between them faded, and Amanda turned serious again. “Wil, your suggestion to help Sam. Are you scheming something foolish?”
She had sidestepped giving her approval as neatly as he had her question. Before he could respond to Amanda’s latest query, Alice returned to the parlor, carrying a silver tray. His mind wandered to June. And that was precisely the reason why Amanda wouldn’t grant her approval. He had crossed the line.
As Alice handed him a steaming tin cup, it nearly slipped from his hand. A scalding drink would have quickly solved the problem of his arousal. That thought helped him refocus his attention to Amanda’s question. “I’m not scheming anything, but I’ll think of some way to get Prescott released.”
Alice chewed on her lip but said nothing.
He sipped the hot liquid—an intriguing blend of herbs. Some people went to great lengths to replace unavailable goods. “Alice informed me that you have a new addition in the family.”
A delighted smile replaced Amanda’s frown. “Would you like to meet him?”
“Of course.”
“Then I shall fetch him.”
Amanda disappeared from the parlor, and the tread of her footsteps retreated up the stairs. Alice’s brow wrinkled. “Are you serious about getting Sam out of Libby, or were you humoring Amanda, so she won’t lose hope?”
He resisted the urge to touch her. “I’m serious. I’ll find a way to get him out.”
She lowered her head.
Wil set the tin cup on the mantel, and his hand went under her chin, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “I don’t expect you to understand, but he was once part of my command.”
She pressed close and put her arms around his waist. “Even as a girl, I knew you were brave. Fancy that, one of the things I fell in love with terrifies me now.”
Unprepared for the admission, he stepped back, breaking the embrace. Careful—he was getting too entangled again. “Would you have me do otherwise?”
Alice shook her head. “No, you wouldn’t be the man I love if you did. I daresay I knew as much when I wrote to you.”
Footsteps sounded behind them, and Alice drew away. “Brigadier Jackson,” Amanda said, “I’d like you to meet Benjamin Prescott.”
Benjamin... She had known that was his son’s name, but beaming with pride, Amanda slipped the baby in his arms. He hadn’t held a baby, since—his own son. Wil forced a smile. “He’s a handsome boy.”
“I hope his papa approves of the name.”
He cleared his throat. “He will. It’s a fine name.” How many birthdays had passed in silence? Ben would have been thirteen come spring. If he had possessed the courage and told Amanda his feelings, this child could have been their son. Was that why she had chosen the name?
The baby opened his eyes with a smile that only babies can give.
“He’s such a good baby,” Amanda said. “Hardly ever cries.”
“Must take after your side of the family. Prescott often voiced his dissatisfaction.”
“No, I see Sam.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. Sniffling, she brushed them away. “Forgive me...”
Like when Peopeo had announced that Benjamin had died, he was unable to react. He returned the baby to Amanda’s arms. “If you will excuse me.”
Alice stepped toward him, but he motioned for her to stay put. Once outside, he lit a cigar. But he had reacted. When there was a medicine shortage, he had smuggled supplies so others’ sons would live. The one thing he could give Amanda was to make certain Prescott didn’t become a casualty of Libby.
He stamped out the cigar and went down the steps. By Poker’s side, he tightened the girth. The farmhouse door flew open, and he untied the gelding from the rail.
“Wil...” Alice charged down the brick walk toward him. “I can’t fathom how someone can be unafraid in the line of battle, but runs at the sight of a baby, or when he finds himself caring for a woman. You ran from Amanda, and now—I had hoped... How old was Benjamin when he died?”
“He was a month shy of his third birthday.”
In the fading daylight her green eyes filled with sympathy. She leaned forward and touched him on the arm. “I can’t say that I know how you feel, but I reckon there’s no greater loss than that of a child.”
With her gentle touch, his thoughts shifted to June. Her long auburn hair draped across him. Her cries... “I need to be leaving.” He turned to mount Poker.
“Back to Richmond? Tonight? Wil, I don’t believe you made the trip only to deliver a message to Amanda. You haven’t even bothered telling me how you’re recovering.”
Wil pulled off his hat and faced her once more. “The wound still bothers me—some days more than others. Alice, my intent was honorable. I had hoped for Amanda’s approval to court you.”
“Did you receive it?”
Restless to be on his way, he shifted uneasily on his feet. Damn—he hadn’t felt this awkward since Peopeo. “No.”
Her tone turned light and sassy. “What is your intent now? You’re not one to let an honorable notion get in the way of something you want.”
“Meaning?”
Alice tilted her head shyly. “Really Wil, from the moment you rode up, you wanted more than to court me. Did you seriously expect Amanda’s approval for anything more?”
Amused he was that transparent, he laughed. “I had hoped to start somewhere.”
“But Amanda knows you better than that—as do I.”
Her voice was suggestive, and Wil met her gaze. “What would you advise as my next course of action?”
“Join us for supper. It wouldn’t be proper to send you on such a long journey without being fed. If you’re in a hurry to return to Richmond...” Up close, he could smell the sweet scent of her perfume. Her smile turned sly and giddy. “...morning will be soon enough. If you leave Poker here, Ezra will tend to him.”
Persuaded to stay, Wil tethered Poker. A courier would have sufficed if he had no intent besides delivering a message. With the mountain lion guiding him, he could no longer resist the power of the otter.
Casual and carefree, Alice should have felt guilt for laughing, but Wil’s presence made her twitter like a schoolgirl. Throughout the chicken and dumpling supper, Amanda forced a cheerful face, but her sister’s pretense was obvious. By the scores, soldiers died in prison. With Sam in Libby, Alice should have restrained her smiles. But Wil’s promise gave Amanda hope.
Following supper, they retired to the parlor for polite conversation. Alice’s giggles were gone, and she sat a respectable distance from Wil on the tapestry sofa. After four months’ separation, she smoothed folds in her dress to keep from staring. Not Wil—there were no taut lines near his eyes nor fidgeting in his seat. She wished she possessed his calm. With the exception of an occasional glance, he showed no tension at all, but facing enemy gunfire would have perfected his collected demeanor.
Almost an hour passed before Amanda rose from the wing chair. Wil stood to bid her goodnight.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Amanda said, “the baby needs to be fed. Alice, do you mind lending a hand?”
As she left the parlor, Alice cast a glance over her shoulder at Wil. His dark eyes turned pensive. She sprinted up the stairs. Expecting a lecture from Amanda, she tapped a foot. “You wanted to speak to me?”
In the rocking chair, Amanda nursed the baby. “I don’t expect you to change your mind on account of anything I say. I’m all too aware of how easy it is to lose your heart. I also know what it’s like after not seeing him for months.”
“Then why?”
“I wanted you to take a good look at your nephew.”
The baby suckled, and Alice bent down to stroke a chubby cheek. “He’s beautiful, Amanda, and I love him with all of my heart.”
“I know, but I never thought I’d be alone with a baby to raise.”
Her message was clear. Alice straightened and squeezed her sister’s hand. “It’s a dangerous time to love, but Sam will survive because he has you and this wonderful little baby to come back to.”
Amanda forced a smile. “You had best not keep Wil waiting. Men get... irritable if it’s been a while since their needs have been met.”
Her jaw dropped. Amanda had always been so proper, and Alice would have never expected such a remark. “Amanda...”
Amanda’s eyes sparkled slyly. “You’re a woman now. I thought you should know.” Her smile faded, and she whispered, “Be careful, Alice. Be very, very careful. Don’t let him break your heart.”
Amanda lowered her head and wept. Many tears had been shed since Sam’s capture. Wil’s verification that he was in Libby probably added to Amanda’s worries.
Torn between comforting her sister and returning to the parlor, Alice turned away. So weak—she was turning her back on Amanda for a man who had never promised his love. Love was truly blind.
Downstairs, Wil no longer waited in the parlor. She heard a sword rattle and headed to the foyer. “You agreed to stay.”
Readying to leave, he strapped on his weapons belt. “My presence has distressed Amanda.”
“It’s not you. She’s fretting over Sam.”
“Prescott’s not all she’s fretting about—for good reason.” Wil yanked his hat from the peg.
He was irritable. Alice clamped a hand over her mouth and chuckled.
“I don’t believe I said anything humorous.”
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. It was no good. She only snickered harder.
Not amused, he fixed his gaze on her.
Alice struggled to regain a semblance of poise. “Amanda warned me that men get irritable when their—uh—needs haven’t been met.”
His eyes narrowed. “Sometimes your naiveté can be irritating.” He grabbed his overcoat and stepped onto the porch.
Following him into the brisk evening air, Alice wished she had brought her shawl. With a shiver, she crossed her arms. “You could have sent a courier with news about Sam. Why did you make the trip?”
In the lamplight shining through the parlor window, his gaze softened, and he threw his overcoat over her shoulders. Leaning against the porch rail, he glanced out at the growing darkness. “If I had wanted nothing more than to satisfy my needs, I would have found a whore in Richmond.”
Direct, honest, but evading the question—so typical of Wil. “Did you come to see Amanda?”
He faced her. “When I set out, I wasn’t certain why, but no, I didn’t come to see Amanda.” Relieved, she breathed out, and he laughed slightly. “I’ve already told you that our relationship was based on friendship.”
“I believe you.” But both of them had wanted more. She heard it in their voices when each spoke about the other. Something had happened that neither was willing to talk about, and it wasn’t her place to pry.
The screech owl wailed a haunting cry. Alone, yet unafraid, it reminded her of wounded men crying for the homes they might never see again.
As if reading her thoughts, Wil broke the silence. “I had hoped you would remain untouched by all of this. I should have kept my word and never allowed you to run supplies.”
“It wouldn’t have sheltered me from the war. Nothing could have, and now I understand what’s at stake.”
“Do you? Alice, come spring, unless by some miracle the war ends before then, I’ll be returning to the field.”
Amanda’s warning had come too late. He had already broken her heart. Never giving her a second glance, he had broken it the first time when she was a girl. Once she was grown, he broke it by loving her in the only way he could. Until the war was over, he would continue breaking it. Faced with no other choice, he was a general of the Confederacy first. “As much as I’d like to pretend otherwise, I’m aware of that.”
“Alice...” He wasn’t sure what he had been about to say, and it didn’t matter anyway. “It’s time that I leave.”
“Leave? But I thought...”
“I know what you thought, but...” Wil heard a horse nicker and voices near the barn area.
“What’s the matter?”
He made a motion for her to lower her voice. There it was again—at least two voices. Alice nodded that she had heard them.
Wil unbuckled his weapons belt. Before handing it to her, he withdrew his pistol. “Go inside, and lock the door.”
As he turned, he felt her hand on his arm. “Wil, be careful.”
Without responding, he continued on. A clear night—at least there was enough light to see by. Whether the unannounced visitors were Yankee or Confederate mattered very little. If they were lurking around the barn area, they certainly weren’t paying a social call. He edged his way across the farmyard.
Two distinct nasal voices came from inside the barn—one sobbing. Yankees—scouts most likely. Wil moved toward them. A pair of light-framed horses built for speed with McClellan saddles and U.S. brands stood just inside the door—definitely Yankee scouts. One man leaned against the other, and a stubble-faced man looked up as he approached. “We don’t mean no harm. My brother’s been hurt.”
Wil lowered his pistol. “Let’s get him to the house.” He tucked the gun in his waistband and lent a hand, drawing the injured Yank’s arm over his shoulder. With each step, the wounded man moaned.
As they went up the stairs, the Yank stumbled. Amanda met them on the porch with John’s hunting rifle. She lowered it, and a hand flew to her mouth. “Dear Lord.”
Once inside, they helped the Yank to the sofa. Amanda bent down to examine the wound. Gutshot—even if a surgeon were available, there was nothing he could do. Peach fuzz covered a freckled face. Nothing more than a boy, he cried for a home he’d never see again.
Tears filled his brother’s eyes, and he latched onto the boy’s hand, while his body quivered in a trembling fit.
All too familiar with death throes, Wil realized it was only a matter of time. His own wound throbbed, and he sank into the wing chair.
Alice dropped his sword to the floor with a clang and a gentle hand touched his shoulder. “Wil...”
He looked up into lovely green eyes and grasped her hand. Wartime was a hell of a time to care, but he would have been fool enough to take on a dozen bluecoats if he thought her life had been at stake.
The boy’s twitching intensified, and he howled in agony. Hours might pass before he breathed his last. Someone should relieve him from his misery. He had best leave the boy be. The brother would think hate guided him. Death was near enough.
“Reb...” The stubble-faced Yank narrowed his eyes in contempt and pointed a finger. “You’re responsible.”
Wil held out open hands. “If you feel better blaming me, then so be it.”
Tears streaked the Yank’s cheeks. “He’s my only brother. Ma told me to look out for him.”
Nothing made sense these days. Misled by war’s glory, boys signed up, hoping to become men. Straight from the Point as a raw cadet, he had believed the same. Eager to see battle, he quickly discovered that war led not to glory but early graves. Damn—he felt old.
While the women spoke words of comfort, the boy clutched his belly and wailed. The Yank returned to his brother’s side, and Wil blocked out the cries. Like on the battlefield, one learned to disregard the screams, or the mind went.
“Wil...” Alice stood before him. “He’s dead.”
Bent over the dead boy, the Yank sobbed.
“I’ll help bury him,” Wil said, standing.
Wiping tears away with his sleeve, the Yank lifted his head and clenched a hand to a fist. “In Virginia—Reb country? I’m sendin’ him home.”
The Yank’s eyes glazed over. Wild and predatory, they no longer seemed human. He reached for his sidearm.
Almost too late, Wil reacted. He shoved Alice aside and fired his pistol. Hit in the head, the Yank tumbled backward across his dead brother with his gun clattering to the floor.
Though his left eye was gone and the back of his head spread across the sofa, the Yank still breathed. At least he wouldn’t linger as long as his brother had.
Wil disliked the notion of watching another man die—especially one he claimed responsibility for. “Let me know when he’s dead. I’ll bury both at the same time.”
Alice huddled in Amanda’s arms. He headed for the study. Without bothering to light a lamp, he slumped into the leather chair behind the desk and searched through the drawers where Amanda’s first husband had stashed the whiskey.
In the lower right-hand drawer, he found an untouched bottle just as John had left it. After the firing on Fort Sumter, they had toasted for a short war. Both veterans of the Mexican War, they were well aware that more than one battle would be fought. True to their prediction, the war had continued year after bloody year, and like so many others, John lay in his grave.
After uncorking the bottle, Wil set it on the desk top. His first duty was to the Yankee family. Although he had written many such letters, it was the first time writing one where he also carried the blame. The family would hate him as much as their son had.
“Wil...” Amanda stood in the doorway.
All too aware of the rage he buried, Alice probably feared him. “Is the Yank dead?”
“He’s passed on.”
“Passed on...” Leaning back in the chair, he snorted a laugh. She couldn’t even say the word. “He’s dead, Amanda. D—E—A—D. That spells dead.”
Amanda approached the desk and lit the lamp. She gestured to the whiskey bottle. “How much of that have you had?”
“Not a drop. But if you come back in an hour, I’ll have a different answer then.”
“Wil...”
Holding up a hand, he let out a tired breath. “Spare me the lecture of how we’ve been friends for years, so I’ll listen to whatever you say. Tell me, Amanda, how many men have you killed?” He seized the whiskey bottle and took a swig. Fiery liquid washed down his throat.
“None. I have never killed anyone, and I hope to God I never have to find out what it’s like. But this isn’t about the war.”
He took another gulp. “Then perhaps you can enlighten me.”
“Why must you be so simple at times? You saw us in danger—her in danger, and you were ready to give your life.”
“Rather noble, don’t you think?” With a smirk Wil raised the whiskey bottle. “Care to join me in a toast? To rescuing damsels in distress.”
He placed the bottle to his lips, and Amanda stamped a foot in disgust. “You fool. Don’t make the same mistake that you did with us.”
Us... He had written the letter, expressing his feelings, but burned it before mailing it to Amanda. “Is that why you named your son Benjamin, Mrs. Prescott?”
As she hustled from the room, Wil thought he saw tears fill her eyes. He returned the bottle to the desk. As usual, he was alone. He searched through the drawer for some paper. Duty came first. He had another sort of letter to write.