Wicked interest flashed in the man’s eyes, as he fumbled open the case and saw the tin-types inside, one of Caroline and Jacob, taken on their wedding day, looking traditionally somber in their finest garb, the other of Caroline, with an infant Rachel in her arms, the child resplendent in a tiny, lace-trimmed christening gown and matching bonnet.
Caroline had sewed every stitch of the impossibly small dress and beribboned bonnet, made them sturdy, so they could be worn by all the children to follow.
No, Jacob cried inwardly, hating his helplessness.
“Well, now,” the man murmured. “Ain’t this a pretty little family? Maybe I’ll just look them up sometime, offer my condolences.”
Had he been able, Jacob would have killed the bummer in that moment, throttled the life out of him with his bare hands, and never regretted the act. Although he struggled with all his might, trying to gather the last shreds of his strength, the effort proved useless.
It was the worst kind of agony, imagining this man reading the letters, noting the return address on each and every envelope, seeking Caroline and Rachel out, offering a pretense of sympathy.
Taking advantage.
And Jacob could do nothing to stop him, nothing to protect his wife and daughter from this monster or others like him, the renegades, the enemies of decency and innocence in all their forms.
With the smile of a demon, the bummer snapped the case closed and reached for his rucksack, ready, at last, to flee.
It was then that a figure loomed behind him, a gray shadow of a man, planted the sole of one boot squarely in the center of the thief’s back, and sent him sprawling across Jacob’s inert frame.
The pain was instant, throbbing in every bone and muscle of Jacob’s body.
“Stealing from a dead man,” the shadow said, standing tall, his buttery-smooth drawl laced with contempt. “That’s low, even for a Yank.”
The bummer scrambled to his feet, groped for something, probably his rifle, and paled when he came up empty. Most likely, he’d dropped the weapon in his eagerness to rob one of his own men.
“I ought to run you through with this fine steel sword of mine, Billy,” the other man mused idly. He must have ridden ahead of his detachment, dismounted nearby, and moved silently through the scattered bodies. “After all, this is a war, now, isn’t it? And you are my foe, as surely as I am yours.”
Jacob’s vision, unclear to begin with, blurred further, and there was a pounding in his ears, but he could make out the contours of the two men, now standing on either side of him, and he caught the faint murmur of their words, a mere wisp of sound.
“You don’t want to kill me, Johnny,” the thief reasoned, with a note of anxious congeniality in his voice, raising both palms as if in surrender. “It wouldn’t be honorable, with us Union boys at a plain disadvantage.” He drew in a strange, swift whistle of a breath. “Anyhow, I wasn’t hurtin’ nobody. Just makin’ good use of things this poor fella has no need of, bein’ dead and all.”
By now, Jacob was aware of men and horses all around, though there was no cannon fire, no shouting, no sharp report of rifles.
“You want these men to see you murder an unarmed man?” wheedled the man addressed as Billy. “Where I come from, you’d be hanged for that. It’s a war crime, ain’t it?”
“We’re not ‘where you come from’,” answered Johnny coolly. The bayonet affixed to the barrel of his carbine glinted in the lingering smoke and the dust raised by the horses. “This is Virginia,” he went on, with a note of fierce reverence. “And you are an intruder here, Sir.”
Billy—the universal name for all Union soldiers, as Johnny was for their Confederate counterparts—spat, foolhardy in his fear. “I reckon the rules are about the same, though, whether north or south,” he ventured. Even Jacob, from his faulty vantage point, saw the terror behind all that bluster. “Fancy man like you—an officer, at that—must know how it is. Even if you don’t hang for killin’ with no cause, you’ll be court-marshaled for sure, once your superiors catch wind of what you done. And that’s bound to leave a stain on your high and mighty reputation as a Southern gentleman, ain’t it? Just you think, Sir, of the shame all those well-mannered folks back home on the old plantation will have to contend with, all on your account.”
A slow, untroubled grin took shape on the Confederate captain’s soot-smudged face. His gray uniform was torn and soiled, the brass of his buttons and insignia dull, and his boots were scuffed, but even Jacob, nearly blind, could see that his dignity was inborn, as much a part of him as the color of his eyes.
“It might be worth hanging,” he replied, almost cordially, like a man debating some minor point of military ethics at an elegant dinner party far removed from the sound and fury of war, “the pleasure of killing a latrine rat such as yourself, that is. As for these men, most of whom are under my command, as it happens, well, they’ve seen their friends and cousins and brothers skewered by Yankee bayonets and blown to fragments by their canon. Just today, in fact, they saw General Jackson relieved of an arm.” At this, the captain paused, swallowed once. “Most likely, they’d raise a cheer as you fell.”
Dimly, Jacob saw Billy Yank’s Adam’s apple bob along the length of his neck. Under any other circumstances, he might have been amused by the fellow’s nervous bravado, but he could feel himself retreating further and further into the darkness of approaching death, and there was no room in him for frivolous emotions.
“Now, that just ain’t Christian,” protested Billy, conveniently overlooking his own moral lapse.
The captain gave a raspy laugh, painful to hear, and shook his head. “A fine sentiment, coming from the likes of you.” In the next moment, his face hardened, aristocratic even beneath its layers of dried sweat and dirt. He turned slightly, keeping one eye on his prisoner, and shouted a summons into the rapidly narrowing nothingness surrounding the three of them.
Several men hurried over, though they were invisible to Jacob, and the sounds they made were faint.
“Get this piece of dog-dung out of my sight before I pierce his worthless flesh with my sword for the pure pleasure of watching him bleed,” the officer ordered. “He is a disgrace, even to that uniform.”
There were words of reply, though Jacob could not make them out, and Jacob sensed a scuffle as the thief resisted capture, a modern-day Judas, bleating a traitor’s promises, willing to betray men who’d fought alongside him, confided their hopes and fears to him around campfires or on the march.
Jacob waited, expecting the gentleman soldier to follow his men, go on about his business of overseeing the capture of wounded blue-coats, the recovery of his own troops, alive and dead.
Instead, the man crouched, as the thief had done earlier. He took up the rucksack Billy had been forced to leave behind, rummaged within it, produced the packet of letters and the leather case containing the likenesses of Jacob’s beloved wife and daughter. He opened the latter, examined the images inside, smiled sadly.
Then he tucked the items inside Jacob’s bloody coat, paused as though startled, and looked directly into his motionless eyes.
“My God,” he said, under his breath. “You’re alive.”
Jacob could not acknowledge the remark verbally, but he felt a tear trickle over his left temple, into his hair, and that, apparently, was confirmation enough for the Confederate captain.
Now, Jacob thought, he would be shot, put out of his misery like an injured horse. And he would welcome the release.
Instead, very quietly, the captain said. “Hold on. You’ll be found soon.” He paused, frowning. “And if you happen to encounter a Union quartermaster by the name of Rogan McBride, somewhere along the way, I would be obliged if you’d tell him Bridger Winslow sends his best regards.”
Jacob doubted he’d get the chance to do as Winslow asked, but he marked the names carefully in his mind, just the same.
Another voice spoke then. “This somebody you know, Captain?” a man asked, with concern and a measure of sympathy.
It wasn’t uncommon on either side, after all, to find a friend or a relative among enemy casualties, for the battle-lines often cut across towns, churches, and supper tables.
“No,” the captain replied gruffly. “Just another dead Federal.” A pause. “Get on with your business, Simms. We might have the blue-coats under our heel for the moment, but you can be sure they’ll be back to bury what remains they can’t gather up and haul away. Better if we don’t risk a skirmish after a day of hard fighting.”
“Yes, Sir,” Simms replied sadly. “The men are low in spirit, now that General Jackson has been struck down.”
“Yes,” the captain answered. Angry sorrow flashed in his eyes. “By his own troops,” he added bitterly, speaking so quietly that Jacob wondered if Simms had heard them at all.
Jacob sensed the other man’s departure.
The captain lingered, taking his canteen from his belt, loosening the cap a little with a deft motion of one hand, leaving the container within Jacob’s reach. The gesture was most likely a futile one, since Jacob could not use his hands, but it was an act of kindness, all the same. An affirmation of the possibility, however remote, that Jacob might somehow survive.
Winslow rose to his full height, regarded Jacob solemnly, and walked away.
Jacob soon lost consciousness again, waking briefly now and then, surprised to find himself not only still among the living, but unmolested by vermin. When alert, he lay looking up the night sky, steeped in the profound silence of the dead, one more body among dozens, if not hundreds, scattered across the blood-soaked grass.
Just so many pawns in some Olympian chess match, he reflected, discarded in the heat of conflict and then forgotten.
Sometime the next morning, or perhaps the morning after that, wagons came again, and grim-faced Union soldiers stacked the bodies like cordwood, one on top of another. They were fretful, these battle-weary men, anxious to complete their dismal mission and get back behind the Union lines, where there was at least a semblance of safety.
Jacob, mute and motionless, was among the last to be taken up, grasped roughly by two men in dusty blue coats.
The pain was so sudden, so excruciating that finally, finally, he managed a low, guttural cry.
The soldier supporting his legs, little more than a boy, with blemished skin and not even the prospect of a beard, gasped. “This fella’s still with us,” he said, and he looked so startled, so horrified, and so pale that Jacob feared he would swoon, letting his burden drop.
“Well,” said the other man, gruffly cheerful, “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch if Johnny didn’t leave a few breathin’ this time around.”
The boy recovered enough to turn his head and spit, and to Jacob’s relief, he remained upright, his grasp firm. “A few,” he agreed grudgingly. “And every one of them better off dead.”
The darkness returned then, enfolding Jacob like the embrace of a sea-siren, pulling him under.
Don’t miss
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY
by #1 New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller!
Copyright © 2017 by Hometown Girl Makes Good, Inc.
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ISBN-13: 9781488097379
At Home in Stone Creek
Copyright © 2009 by Linda Lael Miller
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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Christmas is a time for fresh starts, and in Mustang Creek, Wyoming, anything is possible—even an unexpected love between a graphic designer with deep country roots and a Hollywood executive who lives life in the fast lane.
Read on for a sneak peek of A Snow Country Christmas an all-new Carsons of Mustang Creek novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author Linda Lael Miller and HQN Books!
Raine McCall first frowned at the screen and then stared at the clock.
Her computer was right. Two in the morning? No way.
Oh, she’d be the first to admit that when she was working she lost track of time, but she was always there to put her daughter on the school bus and make sure Daisy had done her homework and had a healthy breakfast.
She’d always suffered from what she called WSS. Whimsical Sleep Schedule.
Awake at all hours, losing track of time if the muse was in the mood, and she’d been guilty of falling asleep in the chair at her desk. Daisy had told her more than once, with a maturity beyond her years, she thought she worked too hard, but then Raine didn’t really think of it as work. Spinning dream images into reality was a unique joy and she felt sorry for every person in the world that had a job they disliked.
She wasn’t the only one awake either. Taking a break, she checked her email and was startled. Mick Branson? The Mick Branson had sent her a message? Hotshot Hollywood executive, way too focused, and no sense of humor—though come to think of it, he did smile now and then. He was good-looking, but she couldn’t get beyond the sophisticated polish. She was a Wyoming girl through and through and thousand dollar suits weren’t her preference. Give her a hat, jeans, and some worn boots.
Of course she’d met the man quite a few times at the ranch because he was the driving force behind the documentaries that Slater Carson, her ex-boyfriend and father of her child, made, but getting an email from him was a definite first. Sent five minutes ago? She was too intrigued not to open it.
I’m going to be in Mustang Creek for the holidays. Can we have a business meeting? Maybe over dinner?
That was interesting, but currently she was up to her ears in deadlines trying to produce artwork for the labels for Mountain Vineyards wines. Her graphic design business had really taken off, and she wasn’t sure she could handle another project.
From what she knew of Mick Branson, it wouldn’t be a small one either.
She typed back. When did you have in mind?
Tomorrow night? If you don’t already hav
e plans, that is.
On Christmas Eve?
Well, Daisy did usually spend that evening with her father’s family and Raine spent it alone with a nice glass of wine and a movie. They always invited her, but she went the next day instead for the big dinner celebration and skipped the night before in favor of solitude. It was never that they made her feel like an outsider; quite the opposite, but Slater needed some time with his daughter to make memories without Raine always in the background. So while she appreciated the invitation, she’d always declined. It had been difficult when Daisy was little to spend such a magical evening away from her, but he was entitled. He was a wonderful father.
She typed: On the 24th of December, I assure you no place is open in Mustang Creek. This isn’t California. You’d have to come to my place and I usually just eat a hamburger and drink wine.
He wrote back: That sounds fine. I like burgers and I enjoy wine. Let me bring the beverages. Please excuse me if I’m inviting myself.
She couldn’t decide if he had, or if she’d done it. She really did need to get more sleep now and then. She typed: Mountain Vineyards for the wine.
You got it.
Have a safe flight.
Thank you, but I’m already here. See you tomorrow. Don’t mention to anyone, especially Slater, that I’m in town please.
Raine sat back and let out a breath. She hadn’t ever anticipated spending an evening with someone like Mick Branson, much less Christmas Eve.
Luckily, she thought, she’d thoroughly cleaned the house the day before when she realized that sound she abstractly heard in the background was the vacuum. Daisy was voluntarily doing a chore she usually argued over? Raine decided then and there—once she recovered from her shock—that maybe she had been spending too much time in her office. Sure enough, the house needed dusting, the kitchen floor had crumbs on it and the laundry room was in dire need of a workout.
Not that someone like Mr. Hollywood Executive Mick Branson, who probably lived in a mansion in Beverly Hills, would be impressed with her small and eclectic house anyway, no matter how tidy. Wait until he got a look at her Christmas tree. There was no theme to the ornaments; if something caught her eye, she bought and it put it up. There were owls, glittery reindeer, a glass shrimp with wings wearing a boa, all right alongside her grandmother’s collection of English traditional antique glass orbs in brilliant colors. Those heirlooms were hung up high thanks to Mr. Bojangles, her enormous Maine coon cat. He was somewhat of a reclusive character, but he became positively playful when the Christmas tree went up. Walking past it usually meant an unexpected guerilla attack on your ankles because he considered it his covert hiding place every December. Therefore the ornaments on the bottom were soft stuffed squirrels and bunnies with a few fake pine cones he could bat around. Add in Daisy’s giant dog, Samson, who accidentally knocked an ornament off every time he walked by, and her tree had no hope.
A Stone Creek Collection, Volume 2 Page 69