A Heart Divided, page 10
Wiley had said he’d shoot him, didn’t he? If he thought he was aiding the Federals…and Sam’s coat lay spread out across his body, a Union coat, so Wiley wouldn’t hesitate. Andy’s chin crumpled and tears blurred his vision as he frowned down at Sam, caressing his lover’s cheek with one hesitant hand. Go on, kill me and get it over with. Kill us both, but the last thing I see will be him. Not you. Him.
Minutes passed and he held his breath, waiting for a bullet that never came. Finally he risked a glance. It was getting dark out there beyond the porch, the trees already shadows closing in on them. At first Andy thought his mind was playing tricks—there was no one out there, nobody at all…
Then movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he heard the faint snap! of a twig beneath the heel of a boot. Andy whirled to stare beyond his fire, through one of the walls that had crumbled down long ago.
There stood a soldier, a rifle in his hands but not aimed their way. His cap was tipped rakishly back on his head, and from this distance Andy couldn’t tell if it were a beard or dirt lining the soldier’s face. But there was no mistaking the uniform—ragged and dusty and worn, even in the dying light he could see the dark blue fabric.
Federals. He stared out into the growing night, his gaze meeting the soldier’s unreadable eyes. In the woods. Jesus.
It wasn’t Wiley at all. It was a Union soldier out there, watching them.
Chapter 15
They stared at each other for one long, breathless moment—Andy with Sam asleep in his lap, the Union soldier out in the growing night. Red sunlight slanted around the stranger, casting the woods behind him into a stark tableau, and Andy waited for him to cock the rifle in his hands, to aim it into the cabin, to aim it at him.
Why hadn’t he fired a shot yet?
He sees Sam’s coat, Andy thought, watching the soldier watch them. It’s blue like his own, so he knows Sam’s one of his men. But then he must see my haversack as well, and it doesn’t take a genius to see the Confederate markings along the front of it—my rank, my regiment, the damn flag—so he must know I’m a rebel.
The eyes that watched him confirmed Andy’s suspicions. He knows it, and he’s not quite sure what I’m doing here with one of his Yanks but he’s going to hold fire until he finds out. If he’d been watching them for any length of time, then the soldier probably noticed that Sam was bad off. Or maybe he thought them resting, friends by necessity, abandoned by their regiments and left for dead. Or maybe…
Just ask him yourself. He hasn’t shot you yet so maybe he won’t.
Running a hand through Sam’s hair to push it back off his sweaty face, Andy cleared his throat and called out, “Hey.”
The soldier jumped as if spooked. A look of unbridled fear crossed his face. Andy saw his hands grip the rifle tighter, and for a moment the barrel dipped toward them.
Quickly Andy held up both hands to show he was unarmed. In his lap Sam muttered, his head tossing to one side before he settled back to sleep again. “Wait,” Andy said. “It’s okay. I’m not—”
The soldier bolted.
For a minute Andy wondered if he had ever been there at all—he was gone that quick, like a ghost by dawn’s light. Then he heard leaves rustling, branches cracking sharply, the crash of flight through the woods, and he knew the soldier was running away. Without further thought, Andy eased out from beneath Sam and stood. He rested his lover’s head on his haversack and picked up Sam’s rifle, discarded to one side. He snagged his revolver, too, tucking it into his belt, just in case.
Then Andy raced from the cabin, tripping down the steps of the porch and stumbling through the undergrowth to catch up with the soldier.
Despite the darkening dusk draped across the sky, Andy could see the soldier ahead of him through the trees. He hurried after, leaping over fallen logs and low bushes in an effort to reach him. Stop, he wanted to cry out, but he saved his breath and bent his head, pumping his elbows to force himself faster. The rifle slung over his shoulder beat out a steady rhythm against his back and the Colt revolver jostled against his hip, in danger of falling to the ground, but Andy paid the weapons no mind. Stop, please, stop already. His lungs burned for air and he pressed harder, closing the distance between himself and the Union soldier.
The soldier looked back and saw Andy following. With a sudden burst of speed, he widened the gap between them, dodging trees and bushes and low branches in his haste to get away. His own rifle was still in his hands and he ran with it in front of his chest like a quarter staff.
Ahead, a thicket of bramble bushes stretched across their path and Andy slowed, expecting the soldier to do the same. Maybe the fellow could take Sam back to his own camp, Andy reasoned as he gasped to catch his breath. A Union soldier meant a Union camp nearby, where there would be a surgeon, someone to dress Sam’s wound, someone to make him better.
Andy could hear the soldier breathing heavily as he closed in. Thank God those brambles were there; he’d be on the Federal in minutes, any second really…
The soldier threw another glance over his shoulder, his dark eyes wide, then burst through the thicket, unheeding the branches that clawed at his face and coat. Andy pulled up short in front of the tangled bushes, gulping air into his raw throat.
“Fuck,” he muttered, breathless.
He eyed the fat thorns covering the brambles, thick barbs he could almost feel scratch at his skin. Taking a deep breath, he held it and listened for movement through the thicket, sounds from the other soldier, ragged breathing or low cursing or breaking sticks, something to prove the man hadn’t simply disappeared into the night.
Nothing.
Around him the woods were silent, the only sounds the pounding of blood in his ears and the crinkle of dead leaves beneath his feet when he shifted his weight. Looking at the thicket again, he wondered if maybe it wasn’t as bad as it appeared to be, if maybe the thorns weren’t that painful. If he could do it, Andy mused, looking around at the darkened woods. Shit, why can’t I?
Because he was running full tilt, a voice in the back of his mind chastised. He didn’t feel the damn thorns because he hit them going so fast. And you know you’re going to feel every single one, stepping in like this. Back up, start running, and try again. Or let him go.
But Andy couldn’t do that, not if there was a chance the stranger might help Sam. Steeling himself with another deep breath, he shoved through the bushes and ignored the thorns when they scraped at him. As they bit and tore at his flesh and clothing, Andy thought of Sam lying ill on the cabin floor, those angry red marks climbing up his leg, the tell-tale sign of infection setting in. He did this for Sam. These cuts and scrapes were nothing compared to the pain he’d feel if he lost the man he loved.
He burst through the thicket with his arms held up to protect his face from the briars. Once he cleared the bushes, he bent over and wiped his hands on his pants, palms bloodied and torn. “Jesus,” he murmured.
Now he’d never find that soldier. After all the noise he’d made coming through the bush? The guy would be miles away by now, racing for a camp Andy didn’t know how to find. He’d have to push back through the brambles to return to the cabin—he had to get back before Sam woke up and found him gone. And God, he’d left the haversack behind, hadn’t he? With the morphine still inside. He shouldn’t have left it—
The dry click of a rifle filled Andy’s ears.
He looked up into the barrel of the Union soldier’s gun. The stranger stared at him, eyes smooth and dark like chocolate in the dusk. This close Andy could see the scruff on his cheeks and chin was hair and not dirt, and when he frowned, his heart-shaped lips pulled into a bow. “Who are you?”
No one, Andy wanted to answer. He was hunched over his knees and didn’t dare move, not with the rifle in his face. He could be honest—Lieutenant Andy Blanks, but he didn’t think that would impress the stranger. I’m just a guy, he thought, just another soldier like yourself. No one important. No one at all.
The choices flickered through his head and were gone, like fireflies at dusk. When he cleared his throat and forced a grin, the words that came out were, “How about you put that down and we talk about this, hmm?”
The rifle didn’t lower, but above its barrel the stranger’s eyes wavered. When he spoke, his voice held a thick New York accent. “Why were you chasing me?”
“Why were you running?” Andy watched doubt flicker across the stranger’s face, and he ventured to add, “I didn’t mean to scare you off.”
“You didn’t scare me.” The soldier frowned. With a nod at Andy’s rifle, he asked, “Where’d you get that Henry? It ain’t yours.”
Andy admitted, “No, it ain’t.” Slowly he straightened up, and the soldier backed away a step to get the rifle out of his face but didn’t lower the gun. “The guy I’m with—”
The soldier scowled. “You killed him? Took his gun?”
Andy shook his head. “No, wait—”
The soldier continued, growing indignant. “Stole his rations, too, I bet, and his ammo and his money—”
“He’s still alive,” Andy interrupted, anger flaring through him. This was stupid, this suspicion, when Sam didn’t have time to waste. “Look, he’s wounded and needs a doctor. He’s a Yankee—”
The soldier laughed. “Talley.”
Andy started. “You know him?”
With a shrug, the soldier frowned. “Maybe.”
Hope soared through Andy’s veins and, despite the rifle aimed at him, he took a step forward, daring to clutch the soldier’s wrist. “Please, he needs help. I’ve stitched the wound but it’s infected. He needs a doctor.”
The soldier twisted out of Andy’s grip. Bringing the rifle up between them, he snarled, “He went down in battle two days ago. He’s dead.”
“He’s not,” Andy said, shaking his head. “Not yet. He needs help. Please.”
For a moment the soldier studied him, his disheveled hair, his dirty face, his torn and grimy clothes. Gray clothes, the color of a rebel, the clothes of an enemy. Then he sighed and in a low voice asked, “What’s it to you?”
Andy wavered. Here it was again, the same discussion he’d had earlier with Wiley. What should he say? What could he say?
When he didn’t answer, the soldier asked, “Who are you?”
“Lieutenant Andy Blanks,” Andy replied. “My regiment is in these woods, you know that. After the battle a day or two ago, I heard him singing out in the night and…”
He trailed off, unwilling to say more. This soldier didn’t need to know who Sam was to him. He’d never understand.
“Please,” Andy said simply. “He needs help.”
The soldier lowered the rifle and stepped closer. Andy held his breath when the man’s hand caught his chin in a rough grip and turned his face up to the last of the light so the red rays from the dying sun shone into his eyes. The stranger’s fingers were strong on his jaw, and Andy tried not to flinch when he leaned closer still, his face blocking out the woods and filling the world. He stared at Andy’s eyes, stared through them, then finally let Andy go.
Phantoms of his touch still pressed against Andy’s skin, and Andy resisted the urge to rub the feeling away. “You’re his boy,” the stranger said softly. “He told me about you. Said you had eyes like mercury, quick and liquid and deep. And light. So damn light it hurt to look at them.”
“He told you about me?” Andy had never had the courage to mention his lover to anyone besides his sister, not after the way his father reacted. He just assumed everyone would feel the same way, two men can’t love each other, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t proper…
But Sam mentioned me. He told this guy about me. He knows.
Confused, Andy asked, “And you are…?”
“Herbert,” the stranger said, sticking out a hand that Andy shook. “Delosier. The third. That’s me.”
Andy frowned. “And you’re…” Okay with this? he wanted to ask.
Herbert interrupted him a second time. “A messmate, maybe a friend. Sam and I bunked together outside the Shenandoah and I caught a shot in my arm. I thought that was it, the war was over for me, so I made him promise to tell my girl back home if I died and he said he would. I asked if he had a girl and he said no, he had a boy who was waiting for him.”
“He told you that?” Andy asked, incredulous.
Herbert laughed. “Yeah. I’d never heard someone out and say it before. I mean, I know it happens, but still…”
He looked away, uncomfortable, and Andy felt a goofy, dazed grin tug at his lips. His heart swelled at the thought of his lover telling this gruff soldier before him, point-blank, that he was in love with another man.
Herbert shrugged again. “He told me about you. I didn’t know you’d be a Rebel, though. I thought you’d be on a farm somewhere, maybe. Not…” He flailed one hand as he searched for what he wanted to say. “Not fighting the war, I guess. I don’t know. He’s still alive?”
Andy’s grin widened, and with relief, he latched onto the sudden change of subject. “Very much so, but he needs a doctor, and soon. Do you think you can take him back to your camp? You’ve got a sawbones there, right?” Before Herbert could answer, Andy said, “I have to get back to him.”
“Can I see him?” Herbert asked. “I mean, I believe you, but I’d still like to see him myself, just to make sure. I trust you, I do—you’re his boy and he loves you so you can’t be all that bad, but you’re dressed in gray, do you know what I mean?”
“I know.” Much as he hated it, Andy knew exactly what Herbert meant.
Chapter 16
Herbert followed Andy, keeping a wary distance between them, but at least his rifle was aimed at the ground. Andy took that as a good sign—it meant the Union soldier trusted him, to some degree. It meant he would give Andy a chance, give Sam a chance, and that was all Andy wanted.
As they neared the cabin, they could hear Sam crying out from inside, his voice hoarse in the wilderness. “Andy! Oh God, Andy, make it stop!”
Without a glance at the soldier who followed him, Andy broke into a run. He heard Herbert right behind him.
“Andy!”
Inside the cabin, Sam thrashed from side to side. Andy skidded across the rotting floorboards to fall on his knees beside him. “Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured, taking his lover into his arms. Sam clutched at him, the fever that rose from him coming off in heated waves that made Andy sick. “It’s okay, Sam, I’m right here. It’s okay.”
Sam buried his face against Andy’s chest and sobbed. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered, hot tears stinging Andy’s skin through his shirt. “I told you not to leave me alone.”
Smoothing Sam’s hair back from his sweaty face, Andy cooed, “I know. Hush now. You need to rest.”
When Sam stopped struggling, Andy glanced over at Herbert, who stood behind him and watched with wide eyes. The rifle hung forgotten from one hand. He stared as if he’d never seen one man hold another.
Exasperated, Andy snapped, “Can’t you light a fire?”
“Who’s there?” Sam rose his head and frowned as he looked over Andy’s shoulder. “Herbert? Is that you?”
“It’s me,” Herbert replied. “I hear you took a hit. I saw you fall.”
Sam laughed, a shaky, mirthless sound. “Like a brick,” he said, his voice as scratched and raw as the thorns in the briar thicket had been. “Set to die, too, until my Andy found me. Do you know him?”
Herbert laughed as he gathered dry sticks for the fire from the limbs scattered across the floor. “We’ve met. Almost shot him, too.”
“I’d have to hurt you then,” Sam replied, frowning.
Andy laughed at the earnest look in his red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t think you’re in the position to hurt anyone right now.” When Sam tried to answer, Andy kissed his mouth to silence him. “I think you need to rest some, that’s all. You’re going to be fine now.”
Sam raised a hand to brush over Andy’s cheek. With a sigh, he trailed that hand down Andy’s neck, over the hollow of his throat, to rest it against his lover’s chest. “I was always going to be fine,” he murmured, slipping back into the semi-conscious sleep he seemed to drift through so easily. “You’re here. I’ll survive.”
“I hope,” Andy whispered, kissing Sam again.
It felt both liberating and strange at the same time to touch his lover in front of another. From the corner of his eye he could see Herbert watching them, silent, but when he saw Andy looking, the soldier turned away. Andy smoothed down the sweaty hair on Sam’s brow. “He’s asleep again.”
Busying himself with the fire, Herbert asked, “So what’s wrong with him?”
“Infection, I think.” Andy caressed Sam’s cheek and kissed his lover’s closed eyelids. Sam’s eyelashes fluttered like little copper shavings against his pale skin and he sighed once, his lips pressing to Andy’s neck with the warmth of a live coal. “He’s feverish. Throat hurts, tired, almost delirious. Fading in and out…can’t walk much either, but that’s just from the wound.”
Herbert nodded. Once the fire was lit, the flames pushed the shadows into the corners of the cabin, and he came over to sit beside Andy. Picking at the hole in Sam’s torn pants, he frowned at the puffy skin around the stitches.
To Andy, the wound looked even worse than before, but it might have just been a trick of the light. He wondered if it would’ve been as bad had he listened to Mendenhall and brought the surgeon to Sam the night before, but it was too late for that. Too late to dwell on it, either.
“Looks like infection to me,” Herbert declared, sitting back, “though I’m no doc or nothing. But my arm swelled up like that. Had leeches on me for a week, painful suckers, too. But Eli’s good, I’ll give the bastard that. He can break the fever, I’m sure of it.”
“Eli?” Andy asked. “Is he your regiment’s surgeon?”
