by J. M. Snyder
Brance stood among them.
Caleb recognized his bushy beard immediately, and sudden relief flooded through him, stumbling him. "Careful, sir," Sonny warned, turning away to keep Caleb from knocking the soup pot. "We's almost made it."
It seemed to take years for the guard to move the frames apart enough to let Sonny inside. Caleb stared at Brance the whole time, silently begging the man to look his way, but the Union soldier steadfastly refused. When the frames were open, the guard tried to keep Caleb from following the boy into the enclosure. "I don't think--" he started.
Caleb shrugged the rifle aside. "I'm wounded, private. Can't join in the fight, so let me help out any way I can."
Once they were inside, the guard struggled to close the frames again. They were awkward, bulky contraptions, and the spiked logs rattled as they were moved back into place. Trouping to the center of the enclosure, Sonny set the soup pot down heavily. "Ain't much, sirs," he told the soldiers, "but it stays down. We got bowls?"
This last was posed to Caleb, who stood staring at Brance. The few scant feet that separated the two men gaped like an canyon between them; he had no clue how he'd ever cross that divide. It was his fault, this whole mess. If he'd only been strong enough to keep quiet...
Sonny tugged the bowls from his hands and they clattered to the ground. Caleb held onto one; when someone tried to take it from him, he twisted it out of the soldier's grip. Shoving through the prisoners, he muttered, "Make way."
Dipping the bowl into the pot, he filled it with warm soup, then carried it carefully over to where Brance stood alone. The soup burned Caleb's fingers through the tin. His voice was soft, repentant, when he held the bowl out to Brance. "Here you go."
Brance didn't respond. His gaze flickered over Caleb with distain, then returned to studying one of the sharpened poles pointing toward him. Caleb moved closer--Brance turned from him, but at least he didn't back away. "Listen, Brance," Caleb tried again, barely whispering to keep anyone else from overhearing, "I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you."
Silence. Caleb searched for something more to say, something to help explain the emotions boiling over in him. Just being so close to the man both excited and terrified him. He'd never felt this way about another before, and somehow he'd managed to ruin whatever chance he might've had to make Brance feel the same about him. "I'd give anything to turn back the clock," he admitted. "Or, hell, stop the sun in its tracks, whatever it'd take to get back to how we were when we first met. That wasn't just me, was it? Tell me it wasn't just me." Then, remembering the bowl in his hands, he held it out again. "I brought you soup."
Brance gave him a look of pure contempt, so potent that Caleb flinched. "I trusted you."
In his gruff voice, the words sounded like an accusation. "I'm sorry," Caleb murmured again.
With a derisive snort, Brance turned away. "Tell me again tonight when I'm dead."
Confused, Caleb started, "What--"
"When the moon rises?" Brance prompted quietly. He glanced at Caleb from the corner of his eye as if sizing him up. "When these men find themselves locked in here with a damn bobcat?"
Slowly it dawned on Caleb. Brance would change tonight, as would he--this was the last night in their cycle this month. But Brance would be trapped behind the chevaux-de-frise, unable to leap over the spiked logs. The other soldiers would see the transformation and do...what? Back the bobcat into the spikes, killing it? Shout at the guards to shoot the beast? Either way, Brance would be dead by dawn. "My God."
That earned him a hard grunt. Caleb reached out, gripping Brance's arm as if afraid to let go. The soldier frowned at the hand but didn't shake it off. "Listen," Caleb said, his voice urgent. "I'll get you out of here, I swear."
Distrust burnished those pale eyes, turning them golden. Brance sounded surprised and a little leery when he asked, "Why?"
Perhaps he was recalling their fight, with teeth and claws bared. Lesser men would let that stand between them, but to Caleb it meant nothing. Brance had every right to be angry with him for his betrayal, and Caleb would take those blows again if it meant closing the distance between them.
Perhaps he too felt whatever it was that ate Caleb up inside, this passion, this desire, this need for something like himself. They were two sides of the same coin, two halves of one whole, and the primal urge to connect consumed them both.
Or perhaps he was afraid--of trusting Caleb again, and of what not trusting him would bring. Guns, and pain. Death. You need me, Caleb thought, holding Brance's gaze with his own as if he could force those thoughts into the man's mind. You may hate to admit it, and you can try to fight it if you want, but this isn't about blue and gray, or North and South, or even right and wrong. This is about you and me--we're cut of the same cloth; we share the same soul. You can't deny it. You can't fight it. You need me.
Aloud, he whispered, "Let me help you, please."
He shoved the bowl at Brance, who took it finally. Raising it to his lips, he sipped at the lukewarm soup, his gaze never leaving Caleb's. Perhaps he heard those thoughts anyway, or could read them in Caleb's eyes. Into the bowl, he muttered, "About time you grew a spine."
That brought a smile to Caleb's face. "I'll return for you before dusk. Be ready."
* * * *
After leaving the prisoners, Caleb retrieved Brance's blanket from the tree where he'd left it what, two days ago now? Then he went straight to his tent to pack what clothing he could into his haversack. He took what little money he had, a handful of Confederate bills that he had sewn into his pillow for safekeeping. And he dug out the service revolver he'd been issued at the start of the war but had not yet put to use. He preferred a rifle full of grapeshot--even a poor marksman like himself managed to hit something that way. The revolver was a much more intimate weapon, much more immediate. The thought of standing close enough to a man to shoot him dead nauseated Caleb. But he could hide it in his belt, beneath his shirt; a rifle wasn't as easy to conceal.
His mind picked at the problem of how to release Brance without both of them getting shot in the attempt. He didn't know what he'd say or do when the moment came, but he'd play it by ear. The worst case scenario was he dawdled too long and the two of them transformed before they got away. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. He wanted to be deep into the forest, hidden by the night and the trees, by the time the first pains rippled through him. But he had to time it right--too early and the whole camp would turn out for them; too late and he'd lose the ability to open the enclosure or threaten the guards. At least there were only two to deal with. Given the present engagement with the Yankee camp, chances were the men would be worn out from fighting at the front; Caleb might catch them off-guard.
When the bell rang out for supper, Caleb slipped from his tent and wove through soldiers scrambling for mess as he headed for the prisoners again. He walked quickly, hoping to outpace the fear that dogged his heels. He had to do this, he reminded himself over and over again. If he let his comrades shoot Brance, a part of him would die in the mud with that man. Even if it cost him his rank, his career, his life, he had to do this.
For Brance.
He crossed the short distance between the camp and the prison, heading for the nearest guard. He kept wanting to prop one of his hands on the handle of his revolver but he didn't want to let on about the gun, so he kept them loose at his sides. The haversack slung over his shoulder and across his chest hid the revolver from sight. As he neared the enclosure, he saw Brance glance at him--that look ignited his mind and raced through him like a flame set to lines of gunpowder. His blood surged at the hope and trust he saw in those champagne eyes; his confidence soared. Widening his smile, he approached the guard. "Evening. Jack, right?"
The guard nodded. "I hear a bobcat got you," Jack said by way of hello. He took in the scratches that still crisscrossed Caleb's face. "I killed me one night 'fore last. Shot him dead at the picket. Right after you left."
Bullshit, Caleb thought, cranking his s
mile up a notch. "That a fact?" he asked, feigning interest. He couldn't resist poking a little fun at the man, nonetheless. "Reckon there's a whole pack of them out here in these woods, what do you say? The one that got me was a mean son of a bitch."
Jack nodded again, warming to the conversation. His rifle hung limp at his side. "I hear they run wild, like wolves. You kill one, you'll kill a dozen before you're through."
Caleb laughed. Bobcats were solitary creatures, though he knew of one who'd willingly submit body and soul to share his territory with another male. That male, over yonder, with the bristling beard and golden eyes. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Caleb ventured, "You ain't from around here, are you?"
"I'm a river boy, myself," Jack said proudly. "You?"
Caleb admitted, "Mountains. I grew up with these cats. Let me tell you, just between us?" He stepped closer, lowering his voice, so Jack had to lean in to hear him. "Beautiful creatures. Softest fur you'll find anywhere. If you bag one?" Jack nodded, eager. "Skin it and you can sell the fur for a small fortune, trust me. More than you'll make in the army, that's for sure."
"Really?" Jack's eyes went wide, impressed. "How much, do you think?"
Caleb looked around as if to make sure they were alone. The other guard had wandered off from his post and stood facing the woods--from the looseness at his belt, Caleb assumed he was relieving himself. His gaze found Brance's; one thought flashed between them. Now.
"You still have the fur?" Caleb asked. Jack's nod was slower this time, caught in his lie, but the look on his face suggested he'd go bobcat hunting once he was relieved from his post. Slowly Caleb extracted the revolver from his belt, keeping up a steady stream of talk to distract the guard so he wouldn't notice the gun. "Don't take it to the sutler, first off. That bastard will rob you blind. I'd say if you want to do yourself right, you'd drop the damn rifle and don't move, you hear me? Don't say a word."
Raising the revolver, Caleb pressed the barrel of the gun to Jack's chin. The rifle clattered to the ground between them. "Man," Jack whined. "What--"
"Shut up." Caleb pulled back the hammer of the gun and Jack swallowed his question. Caleb's heart thudded in his chest like a race horse, a wild sound he was sure Jack heard. Hell, the other guard could probably hear it, as well. He threw a glance over his shoulder to check, but the guard still had his back turned to the enclosure. His pants had slipped a little, exposing a pale sliver of flesh split by the crack in his buttocks, and the rhythmic bump of his hips told Caleb the guy wasn't pissing at all but pleasuring himself instead, enjoying the fresh air and the audience behind him. As long as it kept him busy...
Quietly, Caleb explained, "Listen, Jack. I'm not going to hurt you, believe me?" The guard didn't speak, but when Caleb glanced at him sharply, Jack nodded. "This is what we're going to do. You're going to open the gate..."
The nodding stopped and Jack shook his head. Caleb sighed. Opting for Brance's straightforward manner, he tried, "Open it or die."
That goaded Jack into action. He scrambled away from Caleb, already flailing for the frame that held the spiked logs in place. A hard jerk sent one whole section of the barricade tumbling--Jack back-stepped quickly to avoid the falling logs. On the other side of the enclosure the other guard turned, hand fisted around his hard dick. One look at the damage and he started shoving his erection back into his pants, face red with embarrassment as he shouted at them. "Hey! What the hell's going on?"
In an instant, the Union soldiers surged through the fallen fence. Jack took one look at the mob of Yankees and turned tail, racing through the camp for reinforcements. Some of the freed prisoners headed into the woods; a few wrestled the other guard to the ground, and one snatched the rifle from where it lay at Caleb's feet. Releasing the hammer on his revolver, Caleb surrendered the gun to another soldier. He wouldn't need it soon.
A strong hand took his elbow in a firm grip. Caleb turned to find Brance staring at him with that unreadable expression of his, the one that made Caleb want to roll over and let the man have him any way he wanted. But this was it, then. This had to be goodbye. His throat closed when he tried to say the words; all he managed to choke out was a name. "Brance."
The hand on his arm tightened. The slightest of tugs indicated that he should follow. Just in case Caleb didn't get his drift, Brance said softly, "Come with me."
"Where--"
That small tug again, those insistent fingers. "Just come."
With that, Caleb let Brance lead him into the woods, away from the Confederate camp. Caleb felt the past fall farther behind him with each step they took. By the time they had reached the first thick underbrush that indicated denser forest ahead, Caleb had nothing left but the haversack over his shoulder and the man holding him in hand.
* * * *
Together they ran into the night, stumbling through bushes and tripping over tree roots. Twice Caleb sailed headlong into the darkness, feet unsteady beneath him, but Brance's grip on his arm didn't let him fall. He followed the man blindly, letting himself be led deeper into the woods. This being the last night of change, he knew the moon wouldn't trigger his condition immediately; only the first night did his transformation come on fast, at dusk. The other two nights, it happened once the moon had started across the sky. A bobcat would close the distance he and Brance crossed at greater speeds, and much more quietly. Their only chance was to run as fast and as far as they could and hope the rebels lost them in the dark.
Soon Caleb's side began to burn. He stopped, gasping for breath. "Wait," he sighed. He bent over, gulping in cold air that seared his lungs as he tried to catch his second wind. "I can't. Brance, I can't..."
The hand on his arm relaxed, then released him. Caleb squatted, wincing from the dozen small cuts that stung from fresh sweat. His feet were numb, as if they'd been amputated from his ankles down. His calves and thighs, though, were aflame.
Slowly his body calmed down. He sensed rather than saw Brance in the darkness, the large man barely panting as he waited beside Caleb. "I can't go on," Caleb said, his voice steadier now. He sat back, feet flat on the ground, arms resting on his thighs. "I don't even know where we're going. I can't just keep running--"
"We'll change soon." Brance's voice was surprisingly close, low and urgent. "We can rest then."
But Caleb shook his head. "I mean I can't go on with you." Running a hand through the tangled mop of his hair, he admitted, "Not until we talk things out. I need to know where we stand, the two of us. I just lost everything and I don't...I don't even know why."
Brance stayed silent. Caleb tried to explain. "Are you going to disappear after we change? Leave me on my own? Where do I go then? Tomorrow, when I'm a man again, what do I do? I can't go back to the army, and I don't want to go home. So tell me where things stand between us, Brance, please. Tell me what I can expect from here on out. Tell me..."
Impatient, Brance growled, "You talk too damn much, you know that?"
Caleb shook that away. "I need something from you that tells me--"
Suddenly a soft mouth covered his, demanding. Brance licked into him, claiming him. Surprised, Caleb fell back, hands splayed in the coarse grass to catch himself. Brance climbed onto him, lips finding Caleb's again despite the darkness. Sturdy hands covered his; warm fingers laced between his own as Brance's kiss consumed him. Caleb let himself be lowered, now raised on his elbows with Brance spread out above him, now on his back with his head in the itchy, stunted grass. Brance's beard tickled his lips and chin as the man pinned him down like a captured butterfly. His tongue filled Caleb's mouth, greedy, as if Caleb were all the sustenance the soldier needed to live. The aches and pains disappeared beneath the loving hand that caressed his chest, unbuttoning his shirt almost carelessly. Whatever had stood in the way of their reconciliation dissolved, like fog burned away by the morning sun, as Brance's hand fumbled at the waistband of Caleb's pants.
Brance pulled away long enough to slide those pants down. "Please," Caleb sighed, hands reaching fo
r the erection that already swelled between his legs. The night air blew like unseen breath on his hard cock, thickening it, plucking it erect. Then Brance's hands moved his aside and stroked his length. Caleb raised his knees, arched his back, eager to feel that hot mouth around him again, but Brance had other plans. Squeezing Caleb's dick, he closed his lips over the hairy balls beneath it, taking the heated flesh into his mouth. His tongue licked over them, patient, like a cat grooming itself. Caleb gasped, hands fisting in the grass, his shirt, Brance's hair. His hips bucked, shoving his crotch into Brance's face. The man's breath delighted him, dancing over his damp nuts and the firm root of his shaft. "Yes," he cried, then remembered there might be soldiers in the woods, looking for them, and he bit back the moan that threatened to tear from his throat to shout out into the night. Yes, yes.
That ardent tongue worked lower to find the quivering flesh of Caleb's ass. Large hands held his buttocks up and spread them wide, letting Brance lick his puckered hole. His tongue rimmed Caleb, a mind-numbing sensation, so hot, so real, so-- "God," Caleb gasped, though the Almighty had nothing to do with the passion that flooded his senses or the lust that threatened to drown him. It was Brance, on him, in him. The man filled Caleb's whole world, and eclipsed the rest. Fisting his hands around his own throbbing shaft, Caleb pumped it hard, thrusting into his palms as Brance rimmed his tight hole, seeking release. "Please, God. Yes, yes."
Brance's hands lowered him to the ground, then disappeared. Caleb sobbed, so close. "Please," he tried again. Touch me again, lick me, fill me, love me. Please.
He could barely hear the low rustle of clothing that told him Brance had undressed. Tugging at the haversack around his neck, Caleb called out, "There's a small tin of lard in here. If you--could just... Jesus Christ, fuck me already, will you?"
In the darkness, Brance chuckled. "Thought of everything, didn't you?"
He reached over Caleb, who closed his knees around the man's thick waist. The tips of their dicks touched; he closed his eyes as the sparks that flew between them lit him up inside. He heard Brance shuffling through his haversack, looking for the tin.