by Tinnean
Two for Home
By Tinnean
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2019 Tinnean
ISBN 9781634868846
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
As always, this is for Bob.
Many thanks to Drew Hunt, my fabulous editor. I’d also like to thank Trisha once again, who saw to it I had a copy of The Examiner 100th Birthday: Queen City of the Trails, a book about Independence, MO; to Greg Camus, for the information regarding banjos; and of course, to Gail Morse, the world’s best friend and beta, for all her invaluable help.
* * * *
Two for Home
By Tinnean
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Prologue
The buckskin mare moved across the grassland at a brisk trot, a sure sign she scented water. It was growing late, and if they found the spot before nightfall, it could be a good place to set up camp. It had been a long day, and Zachary Taylor Browne, known as Sharps, was looking forward to bedding down for the night.
He was sure the mare was too. They’d been traveling west to St. Joe for weeks—Sharps saw no need to push Salida. He knew Captain Marriott, the man he was searching for, usually took wagon trains heading to California or Oregon out from that city. Sharps didn’t mind waiting for the captain to return; he had become quite good at cards during the war and had planned to make some extra cash money while he waited.
However, once he’d reached St. Joe, he’d learned Captain Marriott had already been and gone, only this time to guide two wagons north. No one asked much about it; it didn’t pay to be nosy, not if a body wanted to stay alive.
Sharps had stayed in St. Joe long enough to win that extra cash, and then he’d saddled up his mare and left town. He’d been riding north for the past week, and now that his meeting with the captain was so imminent, he realized his nerves had become tied in knots.
Suppose Cap was pleased enough to see him again, but then sent him on his way? There had been women in the small wagon train, and although they were married, things happened on the trail, and by the time Sharps caught up with them, they could be widows, and Cap could be courting one of them
Well, there was nothing Sharps could do about that—it was the captain’s choice. But Sharps was on a mission, something he’d become familiar with during the last year of the war, and he had to find his captain.
Slung across Sharps’s back was a canvas case that held the banjo his pa had crafted. Pa wasn’t an instrument maker precisely, but he was an excellent gunsmith, and he’d spent the years before Sharps had returned designing and putting it together, taking it apart and doing it again when it failed to meet his exact standards. It was in gratitude for what Captain Marriott had done for his son in keeping him safe through three years of the war—Pa had no idea about what the last year had entailed for his son. Or the years after.
Pa had planned to make this journey himself, but he was getting on in years, and when the damp winter caused a congestion of the lungs, he’d done poorly. By the end of March he was gone, leaving Sharps no reason to remain in Brooklyn. He knew some of the tricks of Pa’s trade, but he wasn’t a gunsmith, so he’d sold off Pa’s tools and took on the task of delivering the banjo himself.
Not that it was a chore. It had been a long time, and Sharps missed the captain. He wanted to see him again.
He tipped back his hat and studied the sun as it began its downward journey, and while he remembered that time, he took out the makings and rolled himself a cigarette.
Chapter 1
April 12 was supposed to be a good day. After all, it was Zach’s birthday—his eleventh, and while he’d been shooting Pa’s guns since he was knee high to nothing, Pa had promised to make him a rifle of his very own.
But that April 12 in 1861 had been different. The newsboys started shouting from the street corners.
“Extry, extry! Read all about it! Shots fired on Fort Sumter!”
Pa had bought a newssheet, something he never did, and read it. Zach had never seen his pa lose color like that before, and he tugged Pa’s sleeve.
“What happened?”
“Confederate shore batteries fired on the Union forces holding Fort Sumter in Charleston Bay.”
Zach might have been just a boy, but he knew what that meant. The war many had been hopeful would never happen had started.
“I’ve got to go, Pa.” He knew Pa would have enlisted, but he’d lost a leg in the fight for Texas independence, and the army wasn’t likely to take him.
Pa looked at him sadly. “You’re just a boy.”
“The Union needs all her sons.” He’d heard the alderman say so.
“Zach—”
“They’re going to need drummer boys, too.” Zach beat the drum when the Independent Order of Odd Fellows, which Pa belonged to, marched in parades on Adams Street. “If I’m drumming, that’ll leave one extra man free to shoot the Rebs.”
“It doesn’t matter that your uncle is fighting on the other side?”
It did, but Uncle Ethan would do what he felt he had to do, just like Zach would. Although the Brownes called Texas home—aunts and uncles and cousins still lived there—Pa had been the one with wanderlust. He had travelled up and down the coast plying his trade, making a name for himself as a reputable gunsmith, and he’d come to value the whole country rather than just his home state. After he’d lost his leg and had to muster out of the army, he’d made his way east, going through the Indian Territory, where he’d met and married Inola, a Cherokee maiden whose parents had survived the Trail of Tears. They’d lived with her people until she became ill, some years after Zach was born. Zach might have been young, b
ut he remembered much about that time. When Ma died, Pa had become heartbroken. He’d only stayed until he felt Zach was old enough to travel, and then he went to Unaduti, the chief of Ma’s tribe, and told him they were leaving. Unaduti had offered to keep Zach, but Pa wouldn’t agree to it—Zach was all he had left of Ma.
Pa sighed. “You’re stubborn, boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make sure all you do is beat that dang drum. If I learn you even picked up a gun, I’ll come after you and tan your hide. And if you get yourself shot, I’ll find you and shoot you again myself.” Pa put his hands on Zach’s shoulders. “Come back to me alive, son. Promise me this.”
Zach gave a little bounce. He was never gonna die. “I promise, Pa.”
“All right, then. Let’s get you packed. It looks like I’m going to sign you up.”
Before the day was out, Zach was a part of the 14th Regiment New York State Militia, also known as the 14th Brooklyn Chasseurs.
“We’ll look after him, Mr. Browne,” Lieutenant Marriott promised. The lieutenant had been a West Pointer, and those days he wasn’t on duty, he lived in a rooming house a few doors down from them. He was a tall man, about six foot, with hair almost as dark as Zach’s but with amber eyes—wolf’s eyes—that had intrigued Zach from the very first. He looked handsome in his uniform, and Zach would watch whenever he rode past, thrilled when the lieutenant would smile and toss him a salute.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Pa shook his hand. “Don’t let my boy get killed. He’s all I have left of his ma.” He caught up Zach in a hug, then set him down, turned, and limped away, leaning heavily on his crutch.
“All right, Private Shorty. Let’s get you outfitted and see about finding you a drum kit.”
* * * *
Shorty. That was what the men called him, because he was short for a boy of eleven, not even reaching four foot. But although he never thought of himself by that nickname, he didn’t really mind it because the lieutenant had given it to him. Besides, he’d always been small. His Cherokee name meant squirrel.
And while he was called Shorty, the regiment became known as Lincoln’s Pups because they were favorites of the president, with the 14th Brooklyn even acting as his personal guard on occasion.
And Zach—Shorty—proudly beat his drum.
* * * *
The months and the battles passed, and he’d seen what the men—frustrated that the battle had been fought to a draw and not a victory or overcome with battle lust when they did win—had done, not only to wounded Rebs on the battlefield, but to the women of the plantations they’d stop at to grain and water the horses or to find food for themselves. Not the 14th of course, because they were good men, but others…
The worst one…four men had dragged a young girl into a barn, although Zach hadn’t realized that until afterward, when they came swaggering out, doing up their britches.
They’d leered at him. “You want a taste of her, boy? Maybe suckle her tits? They’s itty bitty ones, but help yourself. She ain’t so purty no more,” the biggest man had gloated. “But I reckon that won’t make no difference.”
Zach had rushed to find the lieutenant, because frankly he was afraid to see what was in the barn.
Later in the war he’d grow accustomed to the atrocities men committed upon each other, but not then. He followed the lieutenant into the barn. In one of the stalls, a big, black woman cradled the girl and sobbed as she petted blood-soaked blonde hair. “My baby. Oh, my sweet baby,” she wailed.
The lieutenant tore off his uniform jacket and covered the girl with it, but not before Zach saw what had been done to her. She was naked, her body covered in deep gouges and bite marks and her thighs were bruised and streaked with blood. Something white was smeared not only over her belly and her small breasts but her mouth as well, and her face was battered and unrecognizable.
Zach gagged, and the lieutenant wheeled on him. “Shorty, I need you to fetch a doctor.”
“Y-yes, sir.” He raced through the camp, relieved to be away from the disturbing sight.
Fortunately, one of the doctors was free, and he let Zach drag him to the barn. The doctor must have suspected how bad it was, because he ordered Zach to stay outside.
Not long after, the lieutenant came out, his lips in a grim, pale line. “Who did this?”
“Is she…” Zach gulped. “Is she dead?” He might have seen death before, but never with such brutality directed toward a woman.
“No, but the doctor isn’t sure if she’ll be right in her mind when she comes to. If she comes to,” he murmured to himself. “Now tell me, Shorty. Who did this?”
“They weren’t of the 14th, Lieutenant.” Zach didn’t know the men.
“Can you tell me what they looked like?”
“Average height, brown hair and eyes.” All he could do was give a general description that matched half the men in camp. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“This isn’t your fault, Shorty.” He growled. “I’ll notify the captain.”
Even though the company wasn’t responsible, they got a stern talking-to. “These women may be Rebs, but they’re to be treated with respect.” The men might have been galvanized by the strategic victory, but they respected their lieutenant, and they all nodded in agreement.
And the next day the regiment moved on.
Almost a year later, though, Zach saw the men again.
After the Second Battle of Bull Run in August of ‘62, the men were disheartened not only by the Rebel victory but by the loss of more than a hundred of their friends and comrades. They set up camp, and all Zach wanted was to wash off the stink of blood and gunpowder—even though he’d kept his promise to Pa and hadn’t fired a shot, he’d still managed to get blood spattered all over him.
He found a secluded little creek just outside camp and sat down on the bank to pull off his boots. He set them neatly to the side, then slid his suspenders off his shoulders and went to work on his madder red trousers. They were around his ankles when the four men came upon him.
He didn’t recognize them, but that didn’t surprise him, since there were a number of other companies camped in the vicinity. He wasn’t concerned either, because he’d never had any of the soldiers of the 14th treat him as anything other than a little brother. He offered the four a smile.
Abruptly, they made a grab for him, and he snatched at his trousers and tried to scramble away. They laughed coarsely as he struggled not to trip over his feet and his pants.
“Gonna take each one of our pricks in your mouth and suck us off, boy,” the biggest one said. “The major’s been keeping us under a tight watch, and we ain’t had us a piece of tail in ages. Having you, though…That’ll make up for this piss-poor battle.”
That was when Zach recognized that voice and those men. The man managed to move fast in spite of his bulk, and he caught hold of Zach’s arm. Zach flinched when the man’s fingernails dug into his forearm. Zach wasn’t going to whimper, but he was scared.
“Let me go,” he said, swearing to himself when his voice chose that moment to crack.
“I don’t think so, boy.”
Zach ducked his head and sank his teeth into this bastard’s arm, just above the wrist. He tasted blood as he broke the skin, and the man howled and clouted him in an effort to get Zach to release him, but he didn’t. Then the sweetest sound in all the world reached his ringing ears.
“What’s going on here?” Lieutenant Marriott demanded, and if the big man had held a burning brand, he couldn’t have reacted quicker. He opened the fist that gripped Zach’s arm and tried to yank it free. Zach released it and sagged in gratitude at the lieutenant’s timely appearance.
“Keep your mouth shut, kid,” the big man hissed, only loud enough for Zach to hear. He gave the lieutenant an ingratiating smile and tugged his shirt sleeve down to conceal the teeth marks in his arm. “Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on, Lieutenant. We was just funnin’ with the boy. I reckon he couldn’t take a joke. We didn’t mean
no harm.”
Zach had no intention of keeping his mouth shut. “They wanted me to suck them, sir.” He dodged away from the man and stepped closer to the lieutenant.
“The boy is under my protection. You’ll leave him alone.”
“Aw, hell, Lieutenant, we didn’t know it was like that.”
“Now you know. And if I ever catch you even looking cross-eyed at him, that bite he gave you will seem like a lover’s kiss, because I swear to God I’ll cut you into doll rags.” His gaze was cold as he stared at them from under the brim of his red kepi.
“Jesus, Lieutenant, you don’t got to take on like that. He’s just a fucking kid. That’s what kids are for.”
“Get back to your own company. If I find you anywhere near the 14th, I’ll slice the hide from your miserable carcasses, and you’ll be begging me to put a bullet between your eyes.” The lieutenant stood with one hand on his pistol while the fingers of the other clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Zach had never heard him sound so deadly.
They grumbled but slunk back to their own camp, the big one glaring at Zach over his shoulder.
Zach reached out a hand and caught the chevrons on the sleeve of the lieutenant’s blue broadcloth coat.
“Are you all right, Shorty?” The lieutenant glanced down at him and turned red, and that was when Zach realized his trousers were still tangled around his ankles. Fortunately, his muslin shirt hung low enough to cover the drawers that had somehow been tugged down to his knees.
“Sorry, sir.” He shivered, yanked up his drawers and his trousers, and tucked in his shirt. “You came in time. I’m all right.” Zach felt sick and cold as he looked up at the lieutenant. “They’re the men who hurt that girl,” he said.
“Last year?”
Zach nodded.
“You’re sure?”
He nodded again.
“All right, get back to camp. I’ll deal with them.”
Zach watched as the lieutenant stalked after the men, then did up the buttons of his trousers, stepped into his boots, and hurried to obey the lieutenant’s order.
* * * *
