by Gina Danna
Totally naked, he walked into the water. The bank water was warm, but further in, it was cold. Good, he needed the cold to kill his stiffness. He dove in.
#
Emma gulped for air as her tears stopped trickling down her face. One hand clenched a diaper. With her other hand, she wiped her cheeks, blinking the remaining tears away. Her legs felt chilled and she looked down. While crying, she had wandered into the water. Her pantalets were soaked, as was the lower part of her chemise. She sighed. The tears that she’d added to the stream had been pent up inside her for the last eleven months. Longer even. Never allowing herself the time to grieve, her bottled-up emotions had finally been released and she thanked God she was alone.
It was then that she saw the ripple in the water’s surface. Surprised, she didn’t move. The ripples got bigger and fear seeped into her veins. What animal would cause that?
Suddenly, the water parted and a man’s head and torso emerged. A naked man. He sputtered water out of his mouth and his hand wiped up his face, clearing his eyes of water and his hand went up to push his hair back.
Emerald green eyes fell on her. Jack. She watched the water sluice off his body, down the well-honed planes of his muscled chest and abdomen. His arms rippled in definition. Jack Fontaine was lean, his body muscular, like a Greek god. She simply stared.
His lips curved in a wicked smile.
She knew she should leave but her body refused to listen.
He walked right up to her. His hands cupped her cheeks as his lips touched hers. Startled, she gazed at him. She wanted this. With his mouth on hers, her lips parted and his tongue traced them. His touch was gentle but insistent as his tongue invaded her mouth, dancing with her tongue. She couldn’t help herself and leaned into him. He growled into her mouth as his hand slipped around her neck and held the back of her head.
He tasted sweet, like lemon and Jack. This was what she had craved. Him kissing her, desiring her. Heat flowed from him into her and pooled deep inside her, coiling. Fire burned in her, one only he could put out. She felt his hardness. Only the thin layer of her chemise acted as a barrier–one that could easily be removed.
That thought and her own burning for him to be deep inside her crashed in on her. Instantly, reality slammed home. She struggled and broke free.
“What are you doing?” She screeched.
A flicker in his eye, a flash of disappointment at her tone, caught her attention. He gave her another crooked grin.
“I was taking a quick swim. I didn’t know you were here.”
She uttered a sound of disbelief and turned back to the bank, picking up a wayward diaper. Her undergarments clung to her, wet and revealing. She felt the heat of his gaze on her hips and buttocks. The water splashed and she knew he was following her. Of course, he would. They were alone here, she partially undressed and him totally naked. She felt his desire and feared it matched her own. He could ravish her and her body would welcome him. In fact, her body craved him. She had never “craved” Billy. No, once it had been solely Jack, until he discarded her that night for Caroline. Caroline’s manipulation of him and Billy struck her hard. Anger filled her bones. Always Caroline over her–always.
Disgust filled her and she swung around, facing him. “This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? Just to take me and me beg for you.”
His brows furrowed. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“This is why you killed my husband, isn’t it? To finally take the other sister?” Emma knew she sounded irrational. Jack never truly wanted her, just Caroline. Only now, there was no more Caroline, but Emma stood there, hungry for a kiss from this man in the creek in the middle of nowhere. Her inner fear again, that Caroline had been his preference, twisted inside her and before she knew it, she lashed out at Jack, despite the meek protesting voice inside her.
He hissed. “Are you calling me a killer?”
She glared at him. No! But she silenced that inner voice, refusing to listen.
Goliath trotted to him. His clothes were tied to the saddle.
She so wanted revenge for everything she’d been denied because Caroline had come before her in everything, mostly men, even now from the grave. “Didn’t you kill that man in the barn?”
His eyes narrowed. “He was going to rape you.”
“But you killed him,” she flung at him, her voice angry. What was she doing?
Jack took a step toward her again, still naked but no longer aroused. Within two steps, he was in her face. “He had a knife, Emma. I didn’t have any choice but to kill him. I had to save you. And yes, I’d do it again.”
She inhaled deeply but said nothing. Memories of that horrid man, of his hands on her, his knife at her throat, burned deep. He could have raped her. Killed her. Jack had saved her. Her skin crawled. He had been so close. Jack’s aim was deadly, practiced.
But he did stop the man. Kept her from being violated. The inner feud raged and she realized it must be hysteria.
His eyes widened as he stood still, feet firmly planted on the ground. She could see the tension in his shoulders and chest and he crossed his arms.
“I’ve killed more than I remember. It’s war, Emma.” He pivoted on his heel, went to his saddle and yanked off his bundle of clothes. Stepping into and buttoning his drawers, he glared at her. “You think that’s what your brother and I learned at The Point?”
“Well…” she faltered, angry at him and herself. How dissolute was he? Could she ever trust him again?
Shrugging his shirt on, he looked at her one last time, his eyes cold and hard, like his voice. “Emma, if I were you, I’d be scared. Who knows, I may kill you next.” He swung himself up into the saddle and yelled to his mount. The horse leaped and took off at a sprint.
Emma sank to the ground. What had she done? Her world crashed down as Jack raced back to camp. Leaving her alone. Always alone. The worst was that she had asked for it. Her vision blurred again.
#
What the hell! Jack rode through the trees, only half dressed and gripping the reins tightly. Goliath was skittish, sidestepping through the foliage. Thoroughly disgusted, Jack leaped from the saddle, uttering another curse.
She had called him a killer.
He spat and decided to walk back to camp. But Goliath wouldn’t move. Jack tried to relax and school his thoughts, realizing the horse was responding to his own black mood, and sighed. Damn flighty animal.
The scene at the stream replayed in his head. He’d jumped into the water, seeking relief from the heat and to wash off sweat and grime, only to surface and find the angel of his dreams, all clad in white. It appeared she had been waiting for him. Well, that was the way he chose to see it.
He’d never before seen her in that state of dishabille. The simple scoop-necked, cap-sleeved chemise fell to her shins, the leggings of her pantalets underneath were cuffed in lace at her calves. Her copper-colored hair was in disarray around her shoulders, falling free of her braid. Her undergarments were wet from the middle of her thighs down, the fine cotton clinging to her body. Wind had blown the front of her chemise against her, and he saw her pearled nipples outlined in the fabric. She was beautiful, and he drank in the sight, wanting to store it forever. He began hardening as he had stepped closer.
Her amber eyes sparkled in the water’s reflection. He saw the tear-stained cheeks. Those coral lips, slightly opened, called to him. Before he knew it, his mouth was on hers. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and devoured her when she opened to him. He tasted the salt of her tears, mingled with peppermint, arousing him even more.
It was so wrong and so right. And she wanted him. He knew it. The way she responded to him was perfect, inviting and delicious.
Then she stopped him. Her accusations hit him like a bullet–hard, fast and brutal.
Yes, Jack knew he was a murderer. What soldier wasn’t? But those men he had killed, even that white trash who had attacked her, would haunt him forever.
The carnage at Sharpsburg w
as the hardest memory to bury. The sunken lane, filled with the dead, the Reaper having come to collect them all. Even now, they beckoned him to join them…
He stopped abruptly, Goliath within a breath of his back. Jack closed his eyes, wishing away the spirits. When he gazed ahead, he saw John Henry holding Nathan, saying something in low tones to the child. Jack actually enjoyed a moment of peace while gazing at his son. Someone untouched by the madness.
He ran right into Tilly. The slave rolled her eyes up to his, a slow smile coming to her.
“Massa Jack,” her fingers rolled up his chest. “Le’me help you.”
She took his hand and placed it on her breast, squeezing it. It was heavy in his hand. She rolled his thumb over her hard nipple.
He stood, gazing down at her, not expecting what was happening. His mind clouded. Tilly was a young, pleasant-looking slave. No doubt she was used to laying with men. But the vision of her changed to Fanny, her laughter echoing in his ears. And then her screams as his father bellowed instructions to become a man…
Bile rose in his throat as he pulled his hand away from Tilly. Even though she offered herself, he couldn’t. With a hard swallow he walked briskly over to John Henry.
Emma’s father looked at him with a sly eye. “You’re a strange one, boy,” John Henry began. “Emma’s gotta mourn. Leave her be. You’ve got another way. Use her to slake your lust.”
Without responding, Jack picked up Nathan and twirled him in the air. As the baby squealed, he knew they had to leave; two days there had been too long. He’d go insane with another.
#
Over the next few days, Jack tried to stay away from Emma. She’d be better without him. But he couldn’t. He was like a moth to the flame. A smile came to him. Her cheeks were pink from the sun and the touch of color made her look more angelic than before. He wanted her. God, how he wanted her. He was damned.
In the distance, drums and bugles played. Advancing troops. The War reared its ugly head again.
The dead covered more than five acres…about as thickly as they could be laid.
—A veteran Confederate soldier, describing the carnage after the Battle of Cold Harbor
Chapter Twenty-One
Border of Virginia and Tennessee
After a week of self-loathing isolation from Emma, Jack found himself awake in the middle of the night because his son’s scream pierced the air. Everyone was up. The babe was burning with fever. Tilly swore they needed willow’s bark to reduce it, so Emma sent Jack to find a willow tree in the direction the slave pointed. In the pre-dawn light, Jack pulled on Goliath’s reins, halting him. What the hell was he thinking? For the love of all that was holy, he couldn’t tell a damn thing other than that there were trees all around him and none “drooped” like a willow.
Damn!
He sat still and heard a noise in the distance getting louder. His gaze narrowed as he tried to find the source. Off to his left, he saw movement and flickering lights. He slid off Goliath, dropping the lead. In the slowly fading night, he crouched and saw rows of white canvas tents, and the dying lights of a fire or two left for the guards. One tent after another, the flag hanging at the lane of larger tents, officers’ row. It must be a Federal camp, Buell’s Division.
Jack rocked back on his heels, weighing his options. As dawn approached, he could keep looking for a willow tree or find what he needed in the surgeon’s tent. He glanced down at his clothes. He wore his navy trousers without the gold piping on the outer seam and a white cotton shirt. No waistcoat or jacket. Damn, he’d just jumped on his horse and left. The cool night air kept him alert and awake. Going into camp was a risk. He had left McClellan’s army after Sharpsburg, no notice given, just left. They could arrest him for desertion. He stood messing his hair; his morning whiskers would work for the scene he had to present. Hooking his thumbs in his suspenders, Jack exhaled the breath he’d been holding and went to find help for his son.
Two sentries walked the perimeter of the camp methodically, neither looking around, just taking step after step. Jack waited until they passed and then sauntered into camp as though he belonged there. The smell of campfire and burned beef hung in the air, along with horse manure. The scent of the meat made his empty stomach growl.
He had gauged the layout of the camp previously and figured the hospital tent was to the right of his current location. At the next row of tents, he pivoted down the lane to the large wall tent at the end. So far, so good, no one had seen him. Dawn threatened at any moment and his time was running out.
In his path was an empty whiskey bottle that had been cast aside. Jack picked it up, tilting the dark amber bottle in the twilight, praying it still had a dreg left but he couldn’t tell. He took a gamble and turned it upside down so any drops hit his lower lip and chin. The moist contents fell, cascading onto his shirt, the pungent smell of cheap alcohol enveloping him. Tossing the bottle aside, Jack continued to the medical tent.
“Soldier.”
Jack didn’t stop.
The cock of a weapon filled the air. “Stop.”
The gun and voice came from his left. He stopped and stifled a curse.
The crunch of frost-covered grass combined with the sound of leather and metal hitting cloth grew louder as the patrol got closer. Jack closed his eyes. Nathan was sick. He needed to get help for his son. Concentrating hard, he dropped his shoulders and let his hip fall slightly, to give the appearance of a man far gone in his cups.
The soldier walked to his front, his rifle pointed at Jack’s chest. The private was a boy, pale faced and young, as though he had been recruited after taking his pa’s wagon to market. Jack cringed. Boys sent to fight a man’s war. Youth scared easily. He had to use that knowledge. Especially when the lad’s eyes narrowed, trying to discern who Jack was.
“Identify yourself.”
Jack’s lips twitched. “Ah, private, ya’ know me.” He forced a hiccup. “Lieutenant… Lieutenant Masentof,” he slurred.
The boy pulled back a step at the smell of whiskey and his brow knitted. “I don’t…”
“Shhhhh,” Jack stuttered, putting his finger to the boy’s lips. “Can’t have commander findin’ me,” he forced a laugh. “Least not now.”
“Sir, you best be layin’ down then.”
Jack nodded. “Good advice.” He made himself stumble. From the corner of his eye, he watched the soldier shake his head before returning to his post.
Ahead was the surgeon’s tent. He bent beneath the tent flap and entered the world of noxious medicines and tools. Butchers, the whole lot of them. Jack knew some of the Army’s medical doctors were good, but lack of supplies and the hundreds requiring immediate aid after a battle could frazzle anyone’s nerves.
He scanned the supplies but didn’t find anything he could use. Malingerers, those cowards who wouldn’t fight, claiming illness of some degree, lay on the cots lining the tent. He shook his head. The surgeon for this unit must keep his medicines with him instead of within reach of those men. He stepped out and went into the next tent. It was an officer’s tent, and it had the scent of the medicine tent. The frock lying across the chair next to the portable desk had the green shoulder insignia with the designated medical corps emblem. The jacket’s owner still slept to the side.
Jack crept up to the man and pulled his revolver out of his waistband. Cocking the trigger, he aimed at the man’s temple as his hand covered his mouth. The man woke up, startled.
“Shhh,” he hissed. “Get up, nice and slow. Do not make a noise.”
The surgeon gave a quick nod and quietly sat up, blinking, trying to focus on Jack.
Jack kept aim on the man but figured he wouldn’t put up much resistance. He was a medical doctor, not a soldier. The man wasn’t young, though. Older than Jack, closer to John Henry’s age, with the sparse hair on his head graying and his face wrinkling. But his eyes looked clear and bright, like a younger man. Jack snorted. Battlefields were hell and apparently quickly aged medical staff, w
ho were under constant pressure.
“Doctor?”
“I’m Dr. Spencer,” he said calmly. “And who might I be talkin’ to, with such a drawl as you’ve got?”
Jack bit his tongue. His Louisiana dialect had reasserted itself because of being around fellow Southerners. He searched his word usage carefully. It would not help to come off as the enemy. “I need your help.”
Spencer inhaled. “Yes, I believe you do. But enough so to wake me?”
Jack shook his head. “It’s my son…”“Sir, who are you?” The man’s gaze roved over Jack and found his trousers the same cloth as the doctor’s.
“Jack Fontaine,” he muttered. “My son is very ill. I need a doctor so you’re going with me.” He brought the weapon closer.
“Mr. Fontaine, you’re stinking drunk, which can be the only explanation for you to roam a Union camp for services that your town could...”
“I’m not from town. On the road to a new one, and he came down with this last night. You’re the closest help I’ve got.” He gestured with the hand holding the gun.
Spencer rose slowly, his eyes barely leaving Jack. “Fontaine, Jack Fontaine,” he mulled quietly. He grabbed his pants and slid them on, easing his arms into the suspenders. “I know the Fontaines. Just north of New Orleans.”
Jack tensed, uneasy. He needed for them to get a move on, not talk.
“There’s also a Fontaine I’ve read about on the deserter reports,” the doctor added.
Jack flinched.
The man snorted. He’d seen Jack’s reaction. “Oh, yes, surgeons get those reports. Amazing who we might find in our wards, alive or dead.”
Jack didn’t move, his mind searching for a way to convince the doctor this was more important than to haul him in for desertion. He’d swear to turn himself in if they would just move on now.