by J. M. Snyder
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BENEATH A YANKEE SKY
by
J. M. SNYDER
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
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Beneath A Yankee Sky
An Amber Quill Press Book
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
http://www.amberheat.com
http://www.amber-allure.com
All rights reserved.
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.
Copyright © 2007 by J. M. Snyder
ISBN 978-1-60272-113-5
Cover Art © 2007 Trace Edward Zaber
Layout and Formatting
Provided by: Elemental Alchemy
Published in the United States of America
Also by J. M. Snyder
Crushed
Matching Tats
Persistence of Memory
The Powers of Love
Under A Confederate Moon
Dedication
Again, thanks to my betas for helping me out
(Drew, Loukie, Billy), and also to
my dad for helping me get the details right.
BENEATH A YANKEE SKY
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There was an icy edge to the evening air, a sharpness that rustled the leaves and cut across the babbling creek where Brance Brenneman squatted as he rinsed off his tin plate and cup. Winter's coming touch tinted that breeze--though it was still September, Brance felt the chill in the heavy Pennsylvania air. It cooled his heated skin when it danced through the bushy auburn hair corkscrewed over his scalp, slipped between the buttons of his old Union shirt to tease over his chest, tickled up his bare legs to prickle the sensitive skin beneath the dingy underpants he wore. Somewhere to the east, a godless battle continued to wage between North and South, pitting brothers against one another in a war none of them wanted. It had been a good six months since he'd left the fight--and his compatriots--behind.
The brand "deserter" meant nothing to him. He'd grown up with worse names, and suspected there would be others added to the list before he died. As he scrubbed a worn scrap of flannel over his cup, cleaning it with water dipped from the spring, he felt the first stirrings in his gut and knew he'd never fit in among mere men again. He'd live out the rest of his days here, in the woods, where the distinctions between human and animal weren't so great.
At least he was no longer alone.
* * * *
Trees surrounded him, those to the west taller as the land rolled itself into the foothills of the Appalachians. The sun was already out of sight behind the dense leaves, a few rays of lingering light flashing through the canopy when the wind turned, but the moon had not yet risen so Brance ignored the pain that flared in his midsection. He concentrated on the sounds around him, the birdsong that serenaded the setting sun, the rush of water over rocks, the small yawn from the tent pitched a few yards behind his back. In less than an hour, those sounds would deepen, one minor part in a symphony that would come alive to him in the night. Another tremor twisted his stomach. Not long now.
He heard his name called out behind him. "Brance?"
The sleepy voice yawned again, louder this time, then he heard muffled curses as Caleb extracted himself from the tent. Brance glanced over his shoulder--the man he'd known more intimately than any other these past few months stood in front of the small tent, nude, and reached for the sky. A leonine yawn escaped his throat as he stretched; each muscle stood out in stark relief on his slim body. His skin was pale, almost hairless, though Brance knew from experience that a fine down of blond fluff covered every inch of that flesh. How many times had he smoothed down the ruffled hair, like so much fur, along Caleb's arms and legs? How often had his fingers delved into the knot of golden curls now hiding Caleb's dick from view?
As if aware of Brance's stare, Caleb drew the stretch out as long as he could. Then his hands dropped to his head, where they scratched through the mussed mop of blond-brown hair that framed his face. Brance watched those hands trail down Caleb's neck, over his shoulders, along his chest, until they fisted in the patch of curls at his crotch. Cupping his cock and balls, Caleb fondled himself as a wide grin spread across his face. "I see you looking," he called out.
Brance's reply was a wordless grunt before turning back to his dishes. He sensed Caleb's approach, silent on bare feet, and anticipated his lover's touch moments before it came. Firm hands found his shoulders, then tickled over the front of Brance's shirt as Caleb squatted down and caught him in a strong embrace. Damp lips pressed to the nape of Brance's neck, just below the hairline, and hot breath filled his ear when Caleb sighed. "Come back to the tent and fuck me."
The matter-of-fact way he said it, so unabashed, so unashamed, made Brance's whole body burn in response. Suddenly he was all too aware of Caleb's nakedness pressed against him. He was tempted to take the man up on his offer, just drop the dishes in the stream and, hell, take his lover right here, on the ground. Who needed to hide in a tent? They were the only men in these woods, perhaps for miles. What was there to stop them from rutting where they would?
Pain rumbled through Brance's bowels, so acute it took his breath away. From the way Caleb's hands clawed at the buttons on Brance's shirt, he knew his was not the only discomfort. The warm mouth on the back of his neck drew in a quick breath, almost a gasp. Dropping his washcloth, Brance took one of Caleb's hands in his own, laced their fingers together, and gave him a reassuring squeeze, as if they could draw strength from each other. He felt teeth bite into the collar of his shirt and he half-turned to murmur to Caleb, "It's all right."
Caleb sighed as the pain receded. His voice was shaky when he spoke. "God. Each time I hope maybe it'll ease up a bit, you know?"
Brance remained silent. In his opinion, if he agreed with something, then he had nothing to say about it. Why talk just to hear his own voice? But Caleb was cut from a different cloth; no matter how much he tried to insist that he and Brance were the same, there were a few quirks that kept them apart. Caleb's need for constant chatter was one. The man maintained a running commentary as he went through life--now that they were alone, with the rest of the world at bay, Brance caught the brunt of that ceaseless prattle. Most times it just washed over him, a background noise not unlike the stream, constant and unchanging. He'd learned to pick up subtle clues in Caleb's manner that indicated his input was needed--a rise in the tone of voice indicated a question, a covert glance at Brance meant he was expected to speak. For a loner such as himself, Brance found that the hardest part of a relationship, with anyone, was the continued expectation to talk and laugh and joke and ramble on and on and on...
Caleb knew he talked a lot. For the most part, he didn't expect a reply. He seemed quite content to just carry on, and Brance suspected the reason they got on so well was simply the fact that he didn't interrupt Caleb much. What would he say, anyway? He was a man of actions, not words. And he had found nothing more effective at shutting Caleb up than a single finger traced along a swathe of exposed skin, over the back of Caleb's hand maybe, or underneath his knee. One touch...that was all it took to dry up the words and get that wide-eyed gaze turned his way.
Another shot of pain kinked Brance's abdomen. He felt Caleb bury his head between his shoul
der blades, and the arms around him tightened. Raising Caleb's hand to his lips, Brance kissed the battered knuckles. "It's all right," he said again, simply because he thought his lover needed to hear it. "Go cover up, will you? It's colder out here than you think."
Caleb nodded against Brance's back and stood, then leaned down to whisper, "I still want that fuck."
"Later," Brance conceded.
Behind him Caleb stretched again. Brance risked a quick glance up and saw a glorious sight--his lover's balls nestled in fuzzy hair, and the tip of his dick pointing down at Brance like a single sightless eye winking in temptation. If it weren't so late, and the change so imminent...if only they had world enough and time...
A foot nudged the small of Brance's back. "I see you looking," Caleb said again. "Two minutes, I'm telling you..."
Sudden discomfort flickered across Caleb's face as one hand clutched his lower belly. "God," he gasped, a look of sickness on his young face. Turning on his heel, he raced for a low thicket nearby. Brance heard him retch as he disappeared into the underbrush.
It was nothing more than the moon on the rise, but when Caleb cried out in pain, Brance stood and half-turned to follow his lover into the trees before a cramp in his own stomach doubled him over. Clutching his abdomen, Brance fell, breathless, to the ground. His skin began to burn, as if flames lapped his body--pain slashed through him, radiating from his belly up through his chest, shooting down both legs, crippling his arms. In the cataclysm of change, his joints popped as his bones crunched down, reshaping themselves into a familiar feline form. Burnished hair erupted over the back of his hands, along his legs. As he writhed on the ground, his fingers fumbled to unbutton his shirt. His breath came hoarse and close, ragged to his own ears. Over the sound he heard the brook muttering to itself and, beyond that, Caleb's quiet sobs.
With nerveless fingers, Brance managed to extract himself from the shirt. His hands changed as he struggled to undress--his nails lengthening, curving, sharpening, his fingers retreating into padded paws. The last vestiges of humanity fell away as he kicked off his underpants--the legs that slipped from the shorts drew up to Brance's body, feet dissolving into paws, ankles straightening, knees bending back as his thighs reformed into haunches.
Around him, the night came alive with sights and smells and sounds the human he had been could not appreciate. Brance lay on his side, panting, as he allowed himself to remember the feel of this body, its weight and power, the strength now flowing through his veins. The thrashing in Caleb's thicket had stopped, as well. The stench of man filled the clearing but Brance recognized it as his own scent, mingled so heavily with his lover's that the two became one.
A sudden roar split the night. It flashed like lightning through Brance, igniting his blood. As he rolled into a sitting position, the trees nearby shook--he watched a bobcat trot from the thicket, amber eyes trained on Brance's face. Before he could react, the cat came right for him without hesitation. Its cold nose wrinkled as it sniffed over Brance's forehead--he closed his eyes, waiting.
Then a choppy purr filled the night air, and the bobcat butted its head against Brance's. ::What about now?:: the other cat mused. It turned, raising its short tail into the air to expose its anus. A heady scent blossomed between them, a randy, wild smell that eclipsed all others and made Brance's claws knead the soft dirt beneath him, eager. Caleb's voice spoke into Brance's feline brain. ::Will you fuck me now?::
Brance's answer was a flashing cry as he rose to his feet, barbed penis already extended in anticipation.
* * * *
Brance was a nickname--while growing up in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, the son of an Amish minister, he was known as Remembrance Brenneman. The eldest of seven children, his name came from the family Bible, which his father alone could handle. Amos Brenneman would take up the worn, leather-bound volume, sit in the sole chair by the fireplace, and wait for the family to gather around before opening the book to read the Scriptures aloud. It was the only time Brance ever saw gentleness in his father's weathered hands, or heard kindness in his hard voice.
Theirs was a harsh life, eked from the land. Brance learned early on to keep to himself--his father didn't condone idle chatter or gossip. He was a stern man, unsmiling, as strong as an oak tree and as unyielding. In his eyes, the children were little more than slaves, laboring in the fields or among the livestock, cooking and cleaning without complaint. Brance's memories of his childhood were silent; his father was a taciturn man who never spoke unless quoting the Bible and did not let his family do so, either.
By the time he was ten, Brance had grown into a quiet boy, brooding, with a shock of reddish-blonde hair that he kept hidden beneath a black straw hat. His father hated his mop of hair; he claimed it was a mark of the devil, and for years Brance harbored the unspoken fear that one day, Satan himself would come for him. At times this thought both thrilled and terrified him--he dreaded the devil's arrival because the Bible told him to, but at the same time he couldn't help but wonder what would lie ahead for him if he took that path. Would it be as damning as his father decreed? Or would it fill him with the same decadence he felt whenever he hid in the darkness of the barn, pants down, to masturbate? That was a heavenly feeling, the pleasure that soared through him as his fingers danced over his own genitals. How could anything that felt so good be wrong?
According to his father, it was. Brance was caught at the deed only once--he was so lost in the moment, squatting amid the hay with his pants around his knees, fist pumping his hard dick as his thumb rimmed his own quivering asshole, that he didn't hear his father enter the barn. When he ejaculated in a glorious rush of thick, white cum, his father snatched his elbow and dragged him half-naked from the barn. Stumbling over his fallen pants, Brance struggled to free himself, but his father kept a firm grip on his arm as he pulled his son into the bright sunlight.
Embarrassment replaced his lust when Amos forced him to stand, pants down, in the middle of the back yard. Raising his voice, he called for the rest of the family; one by one Brance's siblings joined them, his sisters giggling at his nakedness, his brothers staring at the ground, ashamed to look as if afraid of being called out next. With his family watching, Amos whipped Brance's bare buttocks with a paddle until the crack of wood on skin brought beads of blood to the already pinked flesh. Then he took the board to Brance's hands, still sticky with cum. He broke two fingers that day, which Brance's mother couldn't mend until after the children were all in bed, their father asleep. As she bound his fingers together, she whispered, "Thou hast learned thy lesson."
Brance glared at the wall in the darkness, hot tears he refused to cry stinging his eyes. The lesson was not to be caught again. His father be damned.
* * * *
Later that same year, Brance became other.
His father's duties as a minister often kept him out past nightfall. As the oldest son, Brance had to wait up for his father's return--he was expected to wipe down the horses, feed them, and clean off the buggy while his father relaxed by the fire. There was no greeting when Amos arrived, and no assistance or words of thanks, either. It was a duty Brance had to do. Only once the horses were tended to and the buggy put away could he clean up himself and slink off to bed.
By late November, the wind had turned cold and the first hint of snow tinted the air. The night's heavy rainfall chilled the darkness and muddied the dirt roads; Brance's breath rose like a mist before him as he dried off the horses with an old blanket, his mind back in the house where the rest of the family slept. He could imagine his father all too well, seated in his chair as if it were a throne, warming by the fire while he read from the Bible. The thought rankled in Brance's young mind. The rest of the district saw Amos Brenneman as a strong, upstanding man of moral character but Brance thought him cruel and lazy. He made his children work while he pored over the pages of a crumbling book Brance suspected held no more truth than anything else ever written, and he lorded over his family with a tyrannical rule beneath wh
ich Brance refused to bow.
Though he was loathe to admit it, Brance was his father's son--just as stubborn, just as proud. There were some in the district who might have liked to see him continue in his father's ministry, but Brance already knew he would not join church as an adult. Religion--his father's or anyone else's--held no interest for him.
Behind him, the barn door creaked in the wind, and outside it began to rain again, a hard, driving downpour that lashed against the roof above. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Brance squatted down to scrub the mud from the buggy's wheels when he heard a low, rumbling growl. He glanced over his shoulder to find a sodden bobcat hunched in the doorway, at the very edge of the lantern's light. Perhaps it had noticed the open door and sought shelter from the storm; perhaps the heady stench of wet horses had drawn it in. Whatever the reason, it wandered into the barn through the door Brance had left ajar and now stared at him, eyes like liquid gold in the flickering lamplight.
Brance froze, pinned in place by that unblinking gaze. The bobcat hunkered down, short tail flicking from side to side, and watched as Brance lowered his hand from the buggy's wheel. He dropped the washcloth, then slowly turned to face the feline. His heart hammered in his chest, so loud that at any moment he expected to hear the back door to the house open and see his father striding across the yard to investigate the noise.
The riding crop hung from a hook on the wall behind Brance. Without dropping his gaze from the bobcat's, he stood, one hand already reaching for the crop. The cat's eyes flickered and its growl deepened. Brance took a step back, his fingers brushing the crop. The cat's rear haunches swished as it prepared to pounce.
