Jessie's War (Civil War Steam)

by Connors, Meggan

  Jessie’s War

  Civil War Steam

  Meggan Connors

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Meggan Connors. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written consent from the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the Publisher is illegal. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Canoe Hill Publishing

  1344 Disc Drive #121

  Sparks, NV 89436

  Edited by Red Wolf Media

  Cover design by Debbie Taylor of dcadesigns

  Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-939976-00-0

  First Edition April 2013

  Dedication

  For my wonderful husband, whoever he may be when you read this book. I’m sure he’s done something good recently to merit it. I love you.

  For my children, who can make any room brighter just by being in it.

  Acknowledgments

  First, I have to thank Brooke Moss, the best, most supportive critique partner a writer could have. Her unwavering support of this book and her unconditional love of these characters was instrumental in the final version of this story. No matter the twists or turns this story took, she was always there with her support and friendship. Without her, writing wouldn’t be nearly the fun it is!

  Second, I need to thank my fantastic editor at Red Wolf Media. Her support and guidance helped mold this book into the version you are reading today. A big thank you also goes out to Janna Shay, RJ Gordon, and Michelle Franco, who have been so willing to help when I needed it, and have always let me bend their ears when I needed to.

  Then there are my friends: Michelle Brown, Kristen Flagtvedt, Amy Gonzales, Jessica Haight, Wendy Linnenbrink, Tiffany and Holly Miley, Kathy Ross and Dana Serini. Each of you, in your own way, have inspired me to be a better person, a better writer, and a better teacher.

  And last, I want to thank my husband for his support, dedication and love. I’m a lucky girl to have you in my life.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter One

  Virginia City, Nevada

  January 1871

  Jessie dismounted in a swirl of snow, behind rocks overlooking a narrow valley, the only cover available. The few trees that once stood had long since been cut down as supports for the mines. Only scrub and sagebrush remained.

  She pulled out segmented binocular telescopes from her saddlebag. She ran her hand over her horse’s pale flank, and Taba turned her head and put her warm nose into Jessie’s open hand.

  “Just a few more minutes.” Jessie’s breath smoked in the winter wind.

  Taba chuffed and pawed at the ground, her nervous prancing in perfect time with the pounding of distant ore processors.

  “I know.” She pressed her forehead against the Appaloosa’s. “We’ll go home soon.”

  The sooty grayish-brown snow disguised the horse’s mottled white and dun coat. Jessie glanced to the west, at the dark clouds coming over the horizon. All day, the storm had pressed in, and word in town was that this storm was going to be one of the biggest since ‘46.

  Granted, for as long as Jessie could remember, the next big storm was always “the biggest since ‘46.” Just another way for the merchants to maximize profits. They’d drum up excitement about the coming storms, then inflate the prices on everything from meat and flour to kerosene and coal. Then they’d sell to the desperate newcomers in town, men fresh from Ireland or the already half-starved East coast refugees who didn’t know any better. After all, who hadn’t heard the tales of starvation and cannibalism that had filtered down into this territory ever since that fateful winter of ‘46?

  She crouched as far as the thickening snow would allow and brought the binocular telescopes to her eyes. Searching the landscape, she wasn’t even sure what she wanted to find.

  Down in the valley, a crawler belched black smoke as it made its way on down the rocky hillside with its cargo of unprocessed ore. Farther still, the smelters’ smokestacks billowed into the sky already dark with soot and sulfur. Even upwind, the scent of hell burned her nostrils.

  Several large, snow-covered lumps dotted an otherwise flat landscape. With shaking hands, she shoved the telescopes into her saddlebag and mounted Taba. “C’mon, girl.”

  The horse flung her head as if in protest, and Jessie gave her an affectionate pat. “A little farther, and then we’ll go home.” She hoped the words weren’t a lie.

  The snow fell faster and heavier as they rode into the valley. With any luck, the storm would slow the crawler’s progress back up the mountain to the mine, and Jessie could get in and out. Reaching the first mound, she dismounted. But even before she’d wiped away the several inches of snow covering the corpse, she knew what it was.

  An antelope lay dead in the snow, its murky, sightless eyes frozen over. Blood caked the animal’s body.

  “I am sorry this happened to you.” Looking away from the body, she found several other mounds similar to this one, as far as she could see before the snow obscured her vision.

  An entire herd exterminated.

  Not far off, she heard horses. Standing, she retrieved her revolving shotgun from the side of her saddle just as two horsemen appeared over a rise. She rested the weapon on her hip and waited.

  “Well, if it’s not Miss White.” The man touched his hat in a gesture that mocked propriety.

  Jessie gritted her teeth. “Mr. Smythe. Pleasure as always.”

  “You’re gonna want to put down that weapon.” He pushed his duster back behind his hip, and put his hand on the butt of his still-holstered pistol.

  “Nah. I think I’ll keep it.”

  “You’re trespassing,” Smythe said.

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not. Both the Dorado and the Bonnet companies claim this little patch of hell, but neither of them owns it. Court still hasn’t decided who gets it.” When Smythe opened his mouth to speak, Jessie cut him off. “I can read, Mr. Smythe. I know who owns this land and who doesn’t.”

  The older man frowned. “What are you doing here?”

  “Maybe a better question is what have you done here?” She gestured to the dead antelope. “They entire herd’s been killed.”

  “Damn shame.”

  “The Tasiget Tuviwarai and the Cui Ui Ticutta depend on these
animals for food.” As cold as it was, she felt her cheeks growing hot.

  “The what?” The younger man didn’t even look at Jessie.

  “The Paiute down by Fort Clark,” she said. “They depend on these animals to see them through the winters.”

  Smythe glanced at his companion. “See, Miss White here labors under the impression we care about the Indian brothers she’s trying to protect. Hasn’t figured out they don’t want her any more than we do.”

  His comment stung more than Jessie cared to admit, but she didn’t acknowledge the insult. “The refugees could hunt these animals and have meat for the winter. Half of them are starving, Mr. Smythe. The camps are riddled with disease. They’re white folk, like you. You care about that, don’t you?”

  Smythe shrugged. “Not especially.”

  “Then what do you care about?”

  “Money,” Smythe laughed. “I care about money. It’s what everyone in this town cares about. You should know that by now, Miss White. No one cares about a couple of dead animals, the refugees, or the Paiutes. What everyone cares about is money.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “Yes, everyone. Speaking of, you’re going to come with us. There are some people who want to talk to you.”

  “No.” But as she said the word, she heard the distinctive sound of a pistol cocking.

  “Put down the gun.” A deep voice growled behind her. “I got a pistol aimed right at your skull, miss. I ain’t afraid to use it.”

  Jessie spread her hands wide, and the muzzle of her gun dipped toward the ground.

  Smythe dismounted and plucked the weapon from her. “Nice gun.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced over her shoulder at the man behind her. “Oh, Jeb, when did you start working for them?”

  Jeb gave her a lopsided frown. “Since they started paying me.”

  “I taught you how to read. You’re better than this. Better than them.”

  Jeb shrugged, but his gun never wavered. “And I’m real grateful you did, but you ain’t paying me. A man’s gotta eat, Miss Jessie.”

  Smythe rifled through her saddlebags and pulled out a handful of leaflets. He glanced at them only briefly. “You know this is slander.”

  Jessie shook her head. “No, it’s not. Not if it’s true.” She gestured to the bodies of the antelope around her. “And I think I have the proof right here.”

  “I don’t see nothin’.” Smythe’s companion spat, then wiped tobacco stained spittle from his chin.

  Smythe laughed. “You see, Miss White? It is a shame that such a pretty girl is so misguided. What you call proof will be gone by morning, and no one here will corroborate your story. Why don’t you mount your horse and we’ll all ride in together, all nice and civil-like? There are some people who’d like to have a few words with you.”

  “Am I being offered a choice?” Jessie asked.

  “No.” Smythe jerked his head in Taba’s direction. “Go on.”

  As she walked to Taba, Jessie slid her hand into her pocket. Her fingers curled around a cold, brass disk. Concealing it in the palm of her hand, she yanked the stopper free that would engage the wire.

  Pretending to stumble, she threw the disk, closed her eyes, and went down to her knees.

  The device exploded in a flash of light and noise. Horses spooked and reared. Leaping forward, she tackled Smythe around the knees and wrenched her weapon from his grasp.

  Jessie shoved the business end of her shotgun into his chest and jerked Smythe’s revolver from his holster. She aimed the pistol at Jeb’s head. “Throw down your weapons!”

  Jeb tossed his weapon into the snow before Jessie had even finished her sentence.

  “Good.” She whooped twice, loud. She gestured to the third man, who lay on his back after having been bucked off his horse. “Go join your friend. I want him disarmed, too.” She paused. “Oh, and Jeb? Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “You’ll pay for this,” Smythe growled. “Don’t you get it? There’s a war going on. No one cares about any of this, so long as they get their silver. We’re the ones who give it to them. What do you have?”

  Jessie nodded slowly as she watched Jeb walk to his compatriot, take the gun from his holster, and throw it several yards away. She would pay. She always did.

  “You can’t win this,” Smythe said, and his voice took on a jeering edge, despite the fact that her shotgun was pressed into his chest.

  “I’ll take my chances.” She stood, leaning heavily on the shotgun.

  Smythe groaned.

  Taba appeared, a ghostly gray horse materializing out of the snow.

  Jessie gestured toward Jeb and the other man, who was now sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. “You’ll want to start walking down the mountain. It’ll be dark soon, and the storm’s getting worse. Wouldn’t want you to get caught outside in this.”

  “You can’t think you can take on men like Mackey and Fitzpatrick and win,” Smythe sneered. “You can’t. You’ll lose.”

  “Not sure I care overmuch. The reason your Mackeys and Fitzpatricks don’t like me is because I don’t have a whole lot left to lose.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Smythe said as he limped toward his men. “The sheriff will hear about this.”

  “I look forward to it.” She gestured down the hill with the barrel of her shotgun. “Quick now. Don’t want you to catch cold.”

  She swung herself up onto Taba’s back, and watched the men as they made their way down the mountain. Once they had disappeared into a swirl of snow and soot, Jessie nudged Taba toward home.

  * * * *

  By the time Jessie got home, the sun had long set, and the storm showed no sign of letting up. Even the ore processors had stopped their endless crashing. Maybe the merchants were right. Maybe this really would be the worst storm since the winter of ‘46.

  Her aging wolf-cross, Muha, lifted her head and thumped her tail when Jessie walked in, but didn’t get up.

  Hanging her shotgun up on the wall, she stoked the fire in the coal-fired stove.

  “Weather getting to you, old girl?”

  Jessie bent down and scratched the dog behind her grizzled ears, and Muha thumped her tail slowly. She adjusted Muha’s blanket and stroked her long muzzle.

  “When the weather lets up, we’ll go hunting with Taba, right? Find you a nice jackrabbit.”

  Muha’s head shot up, and a growl rumbled up from the depths of her chest.

  “Mu?”

  The old wolf barked twice, got up, and growled again.

  “Don’t worry, old girl. Probably just the sheriff.”

  Not that he would venture out in this storm. No one would, unless they wanted to cause trouble. The sheriff had done plenty of that, but he wouldn’t risk his neck for someone like her.

  Someone knocked, and Muha’s tentative barking turned hysterical.

  Taking her revolving shotgun back down, she crept to the lever that would pull down the shutters and arm the Gatling gun mounted to the rooftop.

  “Go home, sheriff. Not talking to you today.”

  “It’s not the sheriff.”

  Her hand froze and the shotgun clattered to the floor. Gooseflesh dotted her arms and her pulse quickened, a frantic rat-a-tat-tat like a hail of bullets, as her body recognized what her logical mind denied.

  The room went quiet. Muha sat with her ears pricked up, her tail thumping cautiously against the worn pine floor. The wolf recognized the gravelly voice, too.

  The knock became more insistent, sharper. “Please open the door, Jessie.”

  It was a dead man’s voice.

  She struggled to fill her lungs with air as the pine door shook beneath her visitor’s heavy fists. Those hands would be big and strong and ridged with calluses. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, and she tried not to think about them. Or their owner.

  She’d gotten over his loss just like she’d gotten over all the others.

  With t
rembling hands, Jessie picked up her shotgun and rested it against the wall. Her legs leaden, she walked to the door and put her hand on the knob, but hesitated.

  She’d dreamed of this moment for years, of this man walking back into her life.

  Now she couldn’t bring herself to let him in.

  “Please. It’s freezing out here.”

  She turned the knob, and Luke Bradshaw stood in her doorway, the brim of his hat heavy with snow, and small flakes clung to the dark lashes fringing his silver eyes.

  He was as tall as she remembered, towering over her as he stood on her sagging front porch, bringing with him the scent of smoke and sulfur and snow. A black slouch hat covered his head and rested low over his eyes, and a black duster swirled around his bright-spurred boots. The silver six-shooter on his left hip glittered in the low light, and a large, black satchel was strapped to his broad back.

  Muha pushed her head past the door.

  Luke gave her a lopsided smile and took off his hat. “Hi, Jess.” A scar she didn’t remember ran through his right eyebrow, another creased his chin. He held his hand out to Muha and scratched behind her grizzled ears, the way he always used to greet her. He handed her a piece of jerky, and, despite the long years, a friendship was immediately rekindled. “There’s a girl.”

  “Luke.” Jessie reached out to touch his cheek. The stubble of his unshaven jaw was rough beneath her palm and his skin was cold. Her fingers trembled as she traced his lips, his breath warm against them.

  He kissed her fingertips.

  Dead men didn’t breathe or kiss a girl’s fingers. Dead men didn’t leave as boys and come back as men. Dead men didn’t come home with new scars or shiver with cold.

  “You’re alive,” she whispered.

  “Yep.”

  His sweet, boyish smile melted her heart, and something inside her, denied for far too long, splintered and howled in despair.

  She slapped him.

  The crack echoed in the empty, snow-lit darkness behind him. Jessie stepped back to slam the door on this would-be ghost who had the gall to walk back into her life and act as if he’d never left.