A Husband Returned: Men of Wicked Sorrow, Book One

by Wynne Roman

  He’d wanted to. He’d tried to. And then he’d achieved it the night she’d given him her body, her love, and promised him that she would always be his.

  The storm had blown up out of nowhere, carrying with it thunder, lightning, and pounding rain. Nathan detested such storms, or so he’d learned in his early days at Camp Douglas. Even now, weeks after he’d been released from that place, he felt no easier about them.

  He lay quietly in his bed, grateful that the thunder and lightning had faded. They created a terror within him that he couldn’t explain. He had no memory beyond those first days at the prison camp, and so his irrational fears could be explained by any of a dozen reasons.

  Thank God he hadn’t shamed himself in front of Wren.

  He rolled onto his side and stared into the inky darkness of the bedroom. He slept down the hall from the woman who had hired him as her handyman. He had stayed in the barn until the leaking roof had compelled her to insist that he sleep in the house.

  “You absolutely cannot stay there any longer,” she’d maintained more than once. “The roof leaks, and the next big windstorm will tear it off completely. You will stay in the house where you’ll be warm and dry and far more comfortable.

  He’d laughed at her then. “Warm?” It had been early summer then, and already the days had grown hot as Hades.

  She’d blushed, but he’d let go of the argument and moved into the bedroom that she’d claimed had once belonged to her brother. Reese Gardner hadn’t yet returned from the fighting, she’d admitted in those early days. Nor had she had a letter in nearly a year. She maintained her belief that he was still alive and would be home “soon,” and Nathan had never tried to dissuade her from her confidence.

  Why the hell would he? He couldn’t remember a damn thing about the war or the battles or life as a soldier, although his very presence at Camp Douglas proved he’d fought for the Confederacy.

  All that was gone now. The battles were over, the war had been lost, and soldiers had been sent home. The Confederacy was dead, Lincoln was dead, and the newly reunited country would never be the same.

  None of it meant anything to Nathan.

  His primary goal was survival, and Wren Gardner had given him the chance to do just that.

  Her image came to him in the darkness: the lush, mink-brown hair that she kept pulled back in a tidy bun, the sometimes brown and sometimes green eyes that saw so much more than they revealed, the plump lips that smiled more than they frowned, and her tiny frame that supported her soft, feminine curves.

  She was a woman made to tempt a man—and he shouldn’t notice.

  Frustration rolled Nathan onto his back again. This time he stared at the shadowy ceiling above him. The rain continued, and the wind had picked up to the point where it now blew against the window. He wouldn’t mind so much if it had taken his attention away from thoughts of Wren.

  It didn’t.

  You can’t think of her that way, an anxious voice reminded him from deep inside. Not when you have no idea about the life you left behind. You could have a wife, children, a family who are all waiting for you. You don’t know what kind of responsibilities you left behind!

  And it was true. Every bit of it. But his body still reacted to her nearness, and he woke every morning with longing and thoughts of her on his mind.

  How long?

  He’d begun asking himself the question when the news had begun to break about the imminent fall of the Confederacy. He’d been incarcerated for nearly nine months, and though a true Southerner never admitted defeat, most could see the end was near. It was then that he’d begun to wonder just how long he should—or could—wait to find a new life for himself.

  Now it had been more than a year. With doctors telling him they didn’t know when—or even if—he might get his memory back, he asked himself again. How long?

  Even if he had an answer, his time on the Gardner farm had produced another set of questions to taunt him. What if he did regain his memory and he didn’t like the man he’d been? What if he didn’t want to go back?

  He had no answers to his questions. Not tonight, probably not tomorrow, and perhaps not ever. Now, tonight, all he could do was close his eyes and listen to the rain drown out his thoughts.

  18

  Explosions rattled above him, around him, straight through him to his very soul. Nathan felt them, heard them, saw the bursts of light and the horror they revealed. Men, dead and dying and unrecognizable from the fury of the battle raging around them.

  He had to help them. Save them. Stop the madness!

  “Stop!” he shouted, as though that alone would be enough.

  It wasn’t. Holy Christ, it did nothing as a shell exploded merely feet away from him and a soldier he knew—a young man he had joked with only hours before—screamed an almost inhuman sound. Samuel—not Sam or Sammy but Samuel—went down on one leg when the other disappeared in a burst of blood and flesh.

  “No!” The word was torn from Nathan, and he ran toward the other man.

  Or tried to. After the first slow, agonizing step, he found his body moving as though he slogged through molasses. His limbs felt heavy and weighted down, preventing him from doing anything to help. To hurt. To change the outcome of the destruction raining down all around him.

  Samuel remained prostrate on the ground, his face a mask of agony, while other men fell all around them. The shells kept coming, the bombs exploding, and Nathan could do nothing but scream as he watched.

  “Stop! Goddamn it, STOP!”

  “Shh . . . It’s all right. You’re safe. It’s just the storm.”

  A small, soft hand caressed his forehead, and he reached up to anchor the touch against his skin. “Shh . . .” The tender sound came again, and he let out a harsh, shuddering breath.

  “There you are. You see? It’s all right. The storm kicked up again, and it’s nasty out there.”

  Nathan’s heart pounded, his breathing suddenly became labored, and he gathered his thoughts around him well enough to anchor himself to the reality around him. He lay in a soft, comfortable bed with fresh, sweet-smelling sheets and a feather pillow. He no longer fought just to survive one day to the next in Camp Douglas; he lived and worked on Wren’s farm, several hundred miles from Chicago. He had a future, if only he would reach out and take it.

  A flash of light and a rumbling boom occurred almost simultaneously, and he jerked in anxious reaction. His heart picked up an extra beat, and his breathing deserted him for a moment.

  “Stop!” he screamed into the heavy shadows that fell immediately after the cacophony, but the soft voice, the tender touch soothed again.

  “Shh,” she whispered. “It’s only the storm. And a dream. A very bad dream. It’s all right.”

  Wren.

  He recognized her voice then, and his body settled into something of a boneless heap. His breathing regulated itself, and gradually, his heart slowed to a steady beat. Everything would be all right.

  “Wren.” He said her name then, as much labored sigh as actual speech.

  “Nathan.” She smoothed her hand over his forehead again, down his cheek. “It’s all right,” she said again. “It’s the storm. And a dream. A nightmare.”

  A nightmare.

  He blinked into the darkness, absolutely certain she was right. A dream. A horrible, awful dream turned nightmare. He knew it with every part of his being, and he had no idea what it had been about.

  “I . . . a dream,” he muttered, aware of Wren’s continued touch but only in a distant, distracted way.

  “Yes. A nightmare.”

  Another bolt of lightning, the rumble of thunder, and he flinched. At the same time, they settled him, and he turned his senses outward. The wind howled around the farmhouse, and heavy, driving rain pelted against the windows.

  A storm and a nightmare.

  “Are you all right?” Wren asked after a moment of silence. Her hand remained tender against his cheek.

  All right? He blinke
d as he considered the question. Was he all right? Would he ever be all right again?

  “Yes.” He uttered a low breath. Or he would be.

  “I . . .” She started and then paused. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Instinct began to take over again as awareness continued to collect around him. Talk about it? The nightmare, or whatever else it might be? No! Absolutely not. There was nothing to say. He couldn’t remember a damn thing—again—even though every other sense within him told him it had been as real as anything he’d ever lived.

  “No,” he snapped, sounding more frustrated than he’d meant. Too late to change his tone, he explained instead. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t remember.”

  “All right.”

  The words were soft, perhaps a bit injured, and Wren started to pull her hand back. Nathan realized the repercussions of his attitude and grabbed her wrist.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. “Storms bother me.”

  “I know.” She pulled her arm from his grasp but then relented and stroked a gentle hand over his sleep-tousled hair. “And I’m sorry about that. I wish there were something I could do to help.”

  He didn’t mean to reach for her, but an intensely bright crack of lightning split the night sky, and a growling roll of thunder followed. He tensed and grasped her arm firmly, grunting at Mother Nature in disapproval.

  Wren leaned forward until her lips were close enough to whisper in his ear. “It will be over soon. The sun always comes up, and it will be better tomorrow.”

  Nathan gave a short laugh and found his hand moving up from her arm to cup the back of her neck. “You always say these bright, happy things that you mean to cheer me up.”

  “And do they?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Thunder and lightning came again, suddenly louder and longer and brighter, and battering the house as though the storm had moved directly overhead. The wind and rain had begun to beat against the roof mercilessly, and Nathan found himself tensing with every lash.

  What a coward to be laid low by a simple, goddamn storm.

  Wren must have sensed the anxiety that continued to grow within him, because she stroked a tender hand over his hair and murmured to him like he was a child. He held on to her words like a talisman.

  “Shh. It’s all right. You’re safe. It’ll all be over soon.”

  She cradled him against her soft body tenderly, or did he cradle her? He couldn’t say for sure, but it didn’t matter, because that awful tension began to ease with his growing awareness of Wren and her closeness. Her faint honeysuckle scent, and the whisper of her breath over his cheek, his neck.

  He turned his head. To thank her? Look at her? Then it didn’t seem to matter as his mouth met hers, and the storm faded.

  Nathan’s somewhat dour mood had plummeted by the time he reached the Sangre Real. Goddamn memories. He should have never allowed them to take hold, even for a few brief moments. They only added more confusion to the chaos that plagued him on a regular basis. Yes, Wren was a lovely woman, and, had they lived different lives, she could have meant so much more to him.

  It wasn’t to be, however; it never had been. Now he had this new—old—life to contend with.

  And Mariah. Instead, he had a wife who stood by him. Who pleased him in bed. Who loved him.

  She always had, and he’d always known it. Oh, she hadn’t given him the words, but he’d never doubted it. Not in the days when they’d become betrothed, when they’d married, when he’d been away serving his country, and not once in the days since his return. He saw it in her eyes and her expression. Felt it in her touch.

  It both pleased and frustrated him.

  He’d hurt her over the years. He knew he had, and he’d never once apologized. So how could she keep those tender feelings alive? And why couldn’t he return them?

  Relieved to have arrived, Nathan pulled Clancy to a halt near the corral. The last thing he needed or wanted was more time for his mind to wander to places he should have already learned to avoid. He simply couldn’t seem to stop himself at times. A year without memories did that to a man.

  Trying to make sense of it all now merely confused him more.

  Put it all behind you and live in these moments you have in your hands. It’s how you can sort through the debris of your life and find your place again.

  Ah, he thought with resolve. If only he would listen to the wisdom of his conscience.

  Gabriel strode over, pointing toward the bunkhouse. “Tristan is there.”

  Nathan nodded without looking and swung to the ground instead. “I can see that.”

  A moment of charged silence shimmered between them. “How’s Mariah?” Gabriel finally asked.

  “Mariah?” Nathan narrowed his eyes and forced a stiff glare in Gabriel’s direction.

  The other man stared back from that intensely flashing blue eye, never blinking. “Missus Fairchild,” he allowed, concealing none of his irritation.

  “Why are you asking after my wife?”

  “She’s . . .” Gabriel paused, but only for seconds. “She’s been through enough. More than a woman should be expected to suffer.”

  Nathan wouldn’t argue the point, but the idea rankled that any other man, and especially this man, would try to put Nathan in his place.

  “That is my responsibility,” he snapped. “I will care for her.” He allowed no room for any question in his voice.

  The look in Gabriel’s eye sharpened, and he opened his mouth as though to retort, but Tristan’s shout spoiled the moment.

  “Gabriel. Over here.”

  The other man stiffened and bit out, “He’s waiting.”

  Nathan took his time in securing Clancy, but he couldn’t delay for long. Gabriel had already begun to stalk across the yard when Nathan turned to follow.

  Tristan stood near the bunkhouse with a man Nathan didn’t recognize. “I’m here,” he announced unnecessarily.

  Irritation flashed in Tristan’s gaze, but he only said, “Meet Weston Montgomery. He’s our new cook. West, this is my brother Nathan.”

  Nathan took in the other man with a quick, discerning gaze. The army had taught him how to size up a man quick enough, and he recognized a fellow veteran when he saw one. They all carried a certain look about them, that knowledge of things they’d seen and done and wished they hadn’t. Nathan saw it in himself every time he looked in the mirror, and West Montgomery carried that look in every fiber of his being.

  He was tall and fit, surprisingly well muscled. Certainly, he was strong enough to do the work that would be required of him, and then some. Except for one thing.

  He had only one arm.

  Nathan blinked and chastised himself quickly. Don’t be melodramatic! The man had both arms; he was simply missing one hand. His left arm ended a few inches below his elbow.

  Nathan extended one hand. “Montgomery.”

  The men shook. “Call me West,” said the new cook somberly.

  Nathan nodded. “Welcome to the Sangre Real.”

  “I owe Cap my life. I’ll always come if he needs me.”

  “Cap?” Nathan looked among the other three men.

  Tristan lifted a shoulder dismissively. “We served together.”

  “Ninth infantry,” added West.

  Nathan nodded. He’d never learned which regiment his brother had found himself in. He’d only known that Tristan had headed to east Texas when Nathan had ridden to Austin.

  “Fourth Texas,” he offered, as though it made a difference. It didn’t. War was war, hell was hell, and the battles only served to mix the two in awful, horrific ways.

  The men went quiet for a moment, each caught up in his own thoughts. Memories, Nathan supposed. Or, in his case, fighting against remembering it all one more time.

  “You—” West gestured between Nathan and Tristan “—were smart to enlist separately.”

  “You had brothers who fought?” Nathan asked, already knowing the answer.


  “Two. Andrew is buried at Chickamauga, and Matthew at Nashville.”

  “I’m sorry.” No other words were necessary, and Nathan knew it.

  Silence descended again until he sent the conversation in a different direction. “You’re a cook?”

  West’s expression lifted and one corner of his mouth twitched. “Hunger is an excellent motivator.”

  “You learned out of desperation?”

  “I lost a bet.”

  Tristan laughed, surprising Nathan. He hadn’t heard the sound in so long. The look on his brother’s face was almost peaceful, and far away.

  “None of us could cook. Matt, Andy, West, and I made a bet. Whoever made the best biscuits was going to learn how to cook.”

  Nathan looked at West. “And you won?” he asked in a droll voice.

  “I lost,” he insisted with a scowl. “But now . . .” His shrug emphasized his missing hand. “It’s just as well. I learned to cook, and I can help Tris out.”

  Tris. Nathan heard the shortened version of his brother’s name. Just as Tristan had called Andrew Andy, Matthew Matt, and Weston West. The four of them had been close. Like the brothers he and Tristan had never been.

  Like the brothers Jordan had never allowed them to be.

  “You be all right here, West?” Tristan asked the man who was apparently his pseudo-brother. “Gabriel will show you around. Nathan and I have to talk.”

  19

  Nathan rode into the yard of the Double C, reining Clancy in with slow, deliberate purpose. It was the only way he’d allowed himself to move since he’d left the Sangre Real, and he held himself with the same discipline now.

  He swung down from the saddle, walked Clancy to the barn, and pushed the door aside to lead the horse inside. It was just after dusk, but a lantern hung inside, and Nathan lit it to spread soft light all around him.