“That’s a bet I’d be crazy to take. And nice job trying to change the subject. Raine, really? We’re pregnant?”
“I’m pregnant and you’re the father, so the answer to that is yes.”
“I’m... I don’t even know what to say. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It seemed like the perfect present to surprise you with. Last year you got a haunted cabin. How is a girl going to top that one? It was a high bar.”
“I think you just cleared it.” He reached for her again, but laughing, she pushed him away.
“Tonight you can tell your family face-to-face. Let’s go celebrate. Mace made a non-alcoholic wine drink just for me, called Bran-Son. Drake has a new foal about to drop he’s going to call Brandy. You know those two. The race is on, boy or girl.”
“My family isn’t up for this crowd. Or for Mustang Creek. This isn’t Paris or Rome.”
“No.” Raine hooked her arm through his, her eyes shining. “It sure isn’t. But I think they’ll find they prefer it here.”
He certainly did.
* * * * *
From #1 New York Times bestselling author
Linda Lael Miller and MIRA Books
comes a sweeping new saga set against the backdrop
of the Civil War.
Read on for an exclusive sneak preview of
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY...
The Blue and the Gray
by Linda Lael Miller
Part One
“...entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go...”
Ruth 1:16
ONE
Jacob
Chancellorsville, Virginia
May 3, 1863
The first mini-ball ripped into Corporal Jacob Hammond’s left hand, the second, his right knee, each strike leaving a ragged gash in its wake; another slashed through his right thigh an instant later, and then he lost count.
A coppery crimson mist rained down upon Jacob as he bent double, then plunged, with a strange, protracted grace, toward the broken ground. On the way down, he noted the bent and broken grass, shimmering with fresh blood, the deep gouges left by boot heels and the lunging hooves of panicked horses.
A peculiar clarity overtook Jacob in those moments between life as he’d always known it and another way of being, already inevitable. The common boundaries of his mind seemed to expand beyond skull and skin, rushing outward at a dizzying speed, flying in all directions, rising past the treetops, past the sky, past the far borders of the cosmos itself.
For an instant, he understood everything, every mystery, every false thing, every truth.
He felt no emotion, no joy or sorrow.
He simply knew.
Then, so suddenly that it sickened his very soul, he was back inside himself, a prisoner surrounded by fractured bars of bone. The flash of extraordinary knowledge was gone, a fact that saddened Jacob more deeply than the likelihood of death, but some small portion of the experience remained, an ability to think without obstruction, to see his past as vividly as his present, to envision all that was around him, as if from a great height.
Blessedly, there was no pain, though he knew that would surely come, provided he remained alive long enough to receive it.
Something resembling bitter amusement overtook Jacob then; he realized that, unaccountably, he hadn’t expected to be struck down on this savage battlefield or any other. Never mind the unspeakable carnage he’d witnessed since his enlistment in Mr. Lincoln’s grand army; with the hubris of youth, he had believed himself invincible.
He had, in fact, assumed that angels fought alongside the men in blue, on the side of righteousness, committed to the task of mending a sundered nation, restoring it to its former whole. For all its faults, the United States of America was the most promising nation ever to arise from the old order of kings and despots; even now, Jacob was convinced that, whatever the cost, it must not be allowed to fail.
He had been willing to pay that price, was willing still.
Why then was he shocked, nay affronted, to find that the bill had come due, in full, and his own blood and breath, his very substance, were the currency required?
Because, he thought, shame washing over him, he had been willing to die only in theory. Out of vanity or ignorance or pure naivety, or some combination of the three, he had somehow, without being aware of it, declared himself exempt.
Well, there it was. Jacob Hammond, husband of Caroline, father of Rachel, son and grandson and great-grandson of decent men and women, present owner of a modest but fertile farm outside the pleasant but otherwise unremarkable township of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, was no more vital to the operation of the universe than any other man.
Inwardly, Jacob sighed, for it was some comfort, however fleeting, to know that his mistake was, at least, not original.
Was the cause he was about to die for worthwhile?
Reluctant as he was to make the sacrifice, to leave Caroline and Rachel and the farm behind, Jacob still believed wholeheartedly that it was.
Surely, the hand of God Almighty Himself had guided those bold visionaries of 1776, and led the common people to an impossible victory against the greatest army on the face of the earth. In nearly a century of independence, there had never been a time without peril or strife, for the British had returned in 1812 and, once again, the nation had barely prevailed.
How, then, could he, dying or not, withdraw his faith, his last minuscule contribution, from so noble an endeavor?
So much hung in the balance, so very much; not only the hope and valor of those who had gone before, but the freedom, perhaps the very existence, of those yet to be born.
In solidarity, the United States could be a force for good in a hungry, desperate world. Torn asunder, it would be ineffectual, two bickering factions, bound to divide into still smaller and weaker fragments over time, too busy posturing and rattling sabers to meet the demands of a fragile future, to take a stand against the inevitable rise of new tyrannies.
No, Jacob decided, still clearheaded and detached from his damaged body, this war, with all its undeniable evils, had been fated from the day the first slaves had set foot upon American soil.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal...
That one phrase had chafed the consciences of thinking people since it flowed from the nib of Thomas Jefferson’s pen, as well it should have. Willing or unwilling, the entire nation had been living a lie.
It was time to right that particular wrong, Jacob thought, once and for all.
And if by chance there were warrior angels, he prayed they would not abandon the cause of liberty, but fight on until every man, woman and child on the North American continent was truly free.
With that petition made, Jacob raised another, more selfish one. Watch over my beloved wife, our little daughter, and Enoch, our trusted friend. Keep them safe and well.
The request was simple, one of millions like it, no doubt, rising to the ears of the Creator on wings of desperation and sorrow, and there was no Road-to-Damascus moment for Jacob, just the ground-shaking roar of battle all around. But even in the midst of thundering cannon, the sharp reports of carbines and the fiery blast of muskets, the clanking of swords and the shrill shrieks of men and horses, he found a certain consolation.
Perhaps, he had been heard.
He began to drift then, back and forth between darkness and light, fear and oblivion. When he surfaced, the pain was waiting, like a specter hovering over him, ready to descend, settle upon him, crush him beneath its weight.
Consequently, Jacob took refuge in the depths of his being, where it could not yet reach.
Hours passed, perhaps days; he had no way of knowing.
Eventually, becaus
e life is persistent even in the face of hopelessness and unrelenting agony, the hiding place within became less assessable. During those intervals, pain played with him, like a cat with a mouse. Smoke burned his eyes, which he could not close, climbed, stinging, into his nostrils, chafed his throat raw. He was thirsty, so thirsty; he felt as dry as last year’s corn husks, imagining his life’s blood seeping, however slowly, into the ravaged earth.
In order to bear his suffering, Jacob thought about home, conjured vivid images of Caroline, quietly pretty, more prone to laughter than to tears, courageous as any man he’d ever known. She loved him, he knew that, and his heart rested safely with her. She had always accepted his attentions in the marriage bed with good-humored acquiescence, though not with a passion equal to his own, and while he told himself this was feminine modesty, not disinterest, he sometimes suspected otherwise.
Caroline shouldered the chores of a farmwife without complaint, washing and ironing, cooking and sewing, tending the vegetable garden behind the kitchen-house and picking apples and pears, apricots and peaches in the orchards when the fruit ripened. She preserved whatever produce they did not sell in town, along with milk and eggs and butter, attended church services without fail, though she had once confided to Jacob that she feared God was profoundly deaf. Caroline was an active member of the local Ladies Aid Society, a group devoted to making quilts and blankets for soldiers and gathering donations of various foodstuffs, including such perishables as cakes and bread, all to be crated and shipped to battlefronts and hospitals all over the North. She did all this, and probably much more, while mothering little Rachel with intelligence and devotion, neither too permissive nor too stern.
In addition, Caroline endured every hardship—crops destroyed by rain or hail, the death of her beloved grandfather and several close friends, the two miscarriages she’d suffered—with her chin up and her shoulders back.
Of course she’d wept, especially for the lost babies, but she’d done so in solitude, probably hoping to spare Jacob the added sorrow of seeing her despair. Now, with death so close it seemed palpable, he wished she hadn’t tried to hide her grief, wished he’d sought her out and taken her into his arms and held her fast, weeping with her.
Alas, there was no going back, and regret would only sap what little strength that remained to him.
Besides, remembrance was sweet sanctuary from the gathering storm of pain. In his mind’s eye, he saw little Rachel running to meet him when he came in from the fields at the end of the day, filthy and sweat-soaked and exhausted himself, while his daughter was as fresh as the wildflowers flourishing alongside the creek in summer. Clad in one of her tiny calico dresses, face and hands scrubbed, she raced toward him, laughing, her arms open wide, her fair pigtails flying, her bright blue eyes shining with delighted welcome.
Dear God, what he wouldn’t give to be back there, sweeping that precious child up into his arms, setting her on his shoulder or swinging her around and around until they were both dizzy. Caroline usually fussed over such antics—she’d just gotten Rachel clean again, she’d fret, and here that little scamp was, dirty as a street urchin—or she’d protest against “all this rough-housing,” declaring that someone was bound to get hurt, or any one of a dozen other undesirable possibilities—but she never quite managed to maintain her dour demeanor. Invariably, Caroline smiled, shaking her head and wondering aloud what in the world she was going to do with the two of them, scoundrels that they were.
It was then that the longing for his wife and daughter grew too great, and Jacob turned his memory to sun-splashed fields, flourishing and green, to sparkling streams thick with fish. In his imagination, he stood beside Enoch once more, both of them gratified by the sight of a heavy crop, by the knowledge that, this year anyway, their hard work would bring a reward.
“God has blessed our efforts,” Jacob would say, quietly and with awe, for he had believed the world to be an essentially good place then. War and all its brutalities merely tales told in books, or passed down the generations by old men.
In his mind’s eye, he could see the hired man’s broad black face, shining with sweat, his white teeth flashing as he grinned and replied, “Well, I don’t see as how the Good Lord ought to get all the credit. He might send the sunshine and the rain, but far as I can reckon, He ain’t much for plowin’, nor for hoein’, neither.”
Jacob invariably laughed, no matter how threadbare the joke, would have laughed now, too, if he’d had the strength.
He barely noticed, as he lost consciousness for what he believed to be the final time, that the terrible din of battle had faded to the feeble moans and low cries of other men, fallen and left behind in the acrid urgency of combat.
He dreamed—or at least, he thought he was dreaming—of the Heaven he’d heard about all his life, for he came from a long line of church-going folk. He saw the towering gates, studded with pearls and precious gems, standing open before him.
He caught a glimpse of the fabled streets of gold, too, and though he saw no angels and no long-departed loved ones waiting to welcome him into whatever celestial realm they now occupied, he heard music, almost too beautiful to be endured. He looked up, saw a dazzling sky, not merely blue, but somehow woven, a shimmering tapestry of innumerable colors, each one brilliant, some familiar and some beyond his powers of description.
He hesitated, not from fear, for surely there could be no danger here, but because he knew that once he passed through this particular gateway, there would be no turning back.
Perhaps it was blasphemy, but Jacob’s heart swelled with a poignant longing for a lesser heaven, another, humbler paradise, where the gates and fences were made of hand-hewn wood or plain stones gathered in fields, and the roads were winding trails of dust and dirt, rutted by wagon wheels, deep, glittering snows and heavy rain.
Had it been in his power, and he knew it wasn’t, he would have traded eternity in this place of ineffable peace and beauty for a single, blessedly ordinary day at home, waking up beside Caroline in their feather bed, teasing her until she blushed, or to watch, stricken by the love of her, as she made breakfast in the kitchen-house on an ordinary morning.
Suddenly, the sweet visions were gone.
Jacob heard sounds, muffled but distinct. Men, horses, a few wagons.
Then nothing.
Perhaps he was imagining things. Suffering hallucinations.
He waited, listening, his eyes unblinking, dry and rigid in their sockets, stinging with sweat and grit and congealed blood.
Fear burned in his veins as those first minutes after he was wounded came back. He recalled the shock of his flesh tearing with visceral intensity, as though it were happening all over again, a waking nightmare of friend and foe alike streaming past, shouting, shooting, bleeding, stepping over him and upon him. He recalled the hooves of horses, churning up patches of the ground within inches of where he lay.
Jacob forced himself to concentrate. Although he couldn’t see the sky, he knew by the light that the day was waning.
Was he alone?
The noises came again, but they were more distant now. Perhaps the party of men and horses had passed him by.
The prospect was a bleak one, filling Jacob with quiet despair. Even a band of rebs would have been preferable to lying helplessly in his own gore, wondering when the rats and crows would come to feast upon him.
An enemy bullet or the swift mercy of a bayonet would be infinitely better.
Hope stirred briefly when a Federal soldier appeared in his line of vision, as though emerging from a void. At first, Jacob wasn’t sure the other man was real.
He tried to speak, or make the slightest move, thus indicating that he was alive and in need of help, but he could do neither.
The soldier approached, crouched beside him, and one glimpse of his filthy, beard-stubbled face, hard with cruelty, put an end to Jacob�
��s illusions. The man rolled him roughly onto his back, with no effort to search for a pulse or any other sign of life. Instead, he began rifling through Jacob’s pockets, muttering under his breath, helping himself to his watch and what little money he carried, since most of his pay went to Caroline.
Jacob felt outrage, but he was still helpless. All he could do was watch as the other man reached hurriedly for his rucksack, fumbled to lift the canvas flap and reach inside.
Finally, the bummer, as thieves and stragglers and deserters were called, gave in to frustration and dumped Jacob’s belongings onto the ground, pawing through them.
Look at me, Jacob thought. I am alive. I wear the same uniform as you do.
The scavenger did not respond, of course. Did not allow his gaze to rest upon Jacob’s face, where he might have seen awareness.
The voices, the trampling hooves, the springless wagons drew closer.
The man cursed, frantic now. He found Jacob’s battered Bible and flung it aside, in disgusted haste, its thin pages fluttering as it fell, like a bird with a broken wing. The standard-issue tin cup, plate and utensils soon followed, but the thieving bastard stilled when he found the packet of letters, all from Caroline. Perhaps believing he might find something of value in one or more of them, he shoved them into his own rucksack.
Jacob grieved for those letters, but there was nothing he could do.
Except listen.
Yes, he decided. Someone was coming, a small company of riders.
The thief grew more agitated, looked back over one shoulder, and then turned back to his plundering, feverish now, but too greedy to flee.
At last, he settled upon the one object Jacob cherished as much as Caroline’s letters, a small leather case with a tarnished brass hinges and a delicate clasp.
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.
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