by Lori Austin
The emptiness was filled again and again. There was something special waiting for her just out of reach and only he could take her there.
“Ethan,” she managed. “I—
He pulsed, and that tiny movement revealed all she needed to know. Like a cauldron set on too high a flame, she bubbled over. She could swear she heard a far-off sizzle. She clenched around him, holding him close both within and without. The waves, the heat, the sizzle continued. She never wanted them to stop. But, eventually, they did.
When Ethan collapsed at her side, he drew her into his arms, smoothed his hand over her hair, pressed his lips to her brow. She burrowed in close as his heart slowed, his breath evened out, and he slept. She had consoled him, and he had shown her a whole new world.
It wouldn’t do for one of the guards to catch them like this. They’d never allow her to come back. But for just a moment, she imagined what it would be like to marry this man, to have his children, to live a life far away from here, leave the war and every last pain behind. To work at each other’s sides saving lives.
“Heaven,” she whispered. Too good to be true.
Carefully, she extricated herself from his embrace. He didn’t resist; his eyelids never fluttered; he didn’t even mumble. She was nearly dressed when she heard someone coming.
She blew out the lamp, shoved her last button through the buttonhole, and picked up her shoes. She managed to slip out the door before whoever was clomping through the infirmary reached the storeroom.
Once outside, however, she saw no one. Strange. Her gaze went to Mikey. She couldn’t tell if he was still breathing, so she hurried across the room, set her hand on his chest. It rose—barely—then fell.
“Your bodice is buttoned wrong.”
Annabeth jumped. Moze stood at her side. “I hate it when you do that.”
“Your feet are bare.”
She held up her shoes; her stockings were stuffed inside. “Anything else?”
“You smell like him.”
Silence descended. Really, what was there to say?
Annabeth put on her stockings and shoes, then followed Moze out the door of Palmer’s Factory and through the night to Whitlock’s Warehouse. She started for her cot among the other women, but he stopped her, pointing to the room where they discussed things they wanted no one to hear.
He shut the door; Annabeth sat. She was so tired, the room spun.
“You can’t go back.”
Her head came up; the room spun faster. “I have to. He needs me.”
“Everyone’s going to need you.”
“What?”
“Do you think no one else noticed your dishevel?” He flicked a finger at her yet-crooked bodice. “That they didn’t see you go into the doctor’s room and stay a while? Every man in Palmer’s is going to want a taste. You think he’ll be able to keep them from having one?” Moze shoved a hand through his golden hair. “Jesus, Annabeth, I thought you’d have more sense.”
She had, too. But when she’d been in Ethan’s arms, the only senses she’d had were filled with him.
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
“That’s right, because you’re going home.”
“No.”
“I’ll tie you up, toss you in a wagon, and take you there myself. In fact, that sounds like the perfect plan.” He pulled a length of rope from his belt. Annabeth whirled toward the door. “This is a prison. There’s nowhere to run.”
“No one will hurt me with Mikey—” Her voice broke. Mikey was unconscious. He’d be lucky if he lived one more day. Even if he woke, Lord only knew what he’d say, if he was capable of saying anything at all. It would be a long time before he could keep anyone from hurting himself, let alone her.
Annabeth’s eyes burned. She continued to face away so Moze would not see. “I thought you couldn’t get me out.”
“You were right—I just didn’t want to.”
“Why do you want to now?”
“It’s dangerous.”
“It was always dangerous.”
He sighed. “I need information, but it isn’t worth your life.”
“I never knew you cared,” she muttered.
His silence made her arms prickle, and she faced him. She couldn’t decipher his expression. “Moze—” she began.
“You said you’d spy if I arranged to exchange the sniper for Luke. Except you haven’t found out anything worthwhile.”
“There isn’t anything to find out.”
“Then it’s time to go.”
“Beltrane hinted that Fedya shot Mikey on purpose.”
“You know better. It was an accident. But it’s probably best to let that rumor stand.”
“Why?” she asked.
He gave a growl of exasperation; she was stalling. “Better that the prisoners think Fedya was rewarded for being a traitor than that he was released to get your brother back.”
“What difference does it make?”
“Everyone will want an exchange.”
“Everyone isn’t Fedya.”
“Thank God,” he muttered, then took her arm and tried to tow her out the door.
She yanked free. “I’m not going.”
He bent and tossed her over his shoulder. “Yes, you are.”
CHAPTER 8
Ethan woke alone. He couldn’t think why that bothered him. When didn’t he wake alone?
The scent of lavender rose from his pillow, and his usual morning erection went so rigid, he gasped.
“Hell,” he muttered, and sat up. What had he done?
He threw back the blanket, saw a dark splotch of blood on the cot, and winced. Instead of taking Annabeth’s virginity beneath the sun, he’d done so beneath the moon. Didn’t make it any better.
He would have to marry her.
The weight on his chest lightened. Yes, he was in prison, but so was she. His fault, but she didn’t blame him. She knew all his secrets, and still she had given herself to him.
He had to find her. This proved more difficult than ending the war.
At least Mikey still lived. That turned out to be the only good news of the day.
No one had seen Annabeth since last night. The prisoners knew nothing, the guards the same. His demands for information were met with a cuff on the head.
Day after day he sat at Mikey’s side and stared at the door. Every time it opened, his heart lifted. Every time it closed without sight of her, it fell. He understood that the more desperate he became, the funnier the guards thought it was. Even if they’d known where she was, they wouldn’t have told him. Tired of their laughter and jibes, their offhanded slaps and cuffs, Ethan stopped asking. The instant he was free, he would find her.
His main concern was Mikey. The injury suppurated at one point, oozing a foul-smelling discharge. He traded everything he had in the infirmary for some alcohol, opened the wound, cleansed it, and sewed it shut again.
His brother slept on.
Ethan spent every waking hour wetting Mikey’s lips with a cloth, hoping some of the water went down his throat. He did not sleep on the cot that smelled of her, but rested his head next to Mikey’s huge hand when he could no longer keep his eyes open.
One morning, he awoke. Someone had tapped his head. Ethan peered around. It was so early; the only thing up besides him was the sun. He scratched where the tap had occurred, thinking perhaps he had lice. It wouldn’t be the first time. Then he turned his gaze to his brother. Mikey’s eyes were open.
Ethan blinked. So did Mikey.
Ethan reached for a cup of water, nearly knocked it over, brought it to his brother’s lips, and helped him to drink. That he could was very encouraging.
“Can you speak?” he asked.
Mikey nodded but didn’t.
“Do you know your name?”
Mikey nodded again.
“Can you say it?”
“M-M—”
Joy filled Ethan. It was a miracle.
“Mikhail,” his brother blurte
d.
“No,” Ethan said. “You’re Michael. Mikey. Walsh.”
Mikey scowled, wincing when the expression pulled his stitches. “I’m Mikhail Romanov.” He looked around. “Where’s my brother?”
“I’m your brother.”
Mikey returned his gray gaze to Ethan’s. “Mister, I ain’t never seen you before in my life.”
• • •
Moze stood at the window, gun drawn, as horses approached the Phelan farm.
Annabeth had her father’s Navy Colt out as well. She was glad she’d buried it in the orchard before she’d left. From the appearance of the place, both armies had been through here.
Several times.
Moze holstered his weapon. “It’s them.”
“Luke.” Annabeth ran toward the door. Moze cursed, called her name, snatched at her skirt, but nothing was going to keep her from her brother. Not after all she’d done to find him.
Five men sat their horses in the yard. Four wore gray, the fifth a jumble of clothes that were far too large for him. He was dirty; he smelled. His hands were tied.
“Where’s Luke?”
Someone shoved the smelly man off his horse. He landed with a thud that sent dust billowing across Annabeth’s feet. “Luke Phelan, as ordered.” But it wasn’t her brother.
Annabeth turned to Moze. “I told you one of us should be at the exchange.” Then, to her horror, she burst into tears.
She’d sacrificed the man she loved—she hadn’t meant to, but the fact remained that she had—to get her brother back. That she hadn’t was either poetic justice or perhaps the laughter of God at someone who believed she could orchestrate fate.
A half hour later, the strangers were gone, taking the man who wasn’t her brother with them. His name was Luke Celan. An honest mistake, the leader said, though how anyone could confuse dirt-brown hair with Phelan red, Annabeth had no idea.
“You just exchanged the Union’s greatest sniper for a farm boy who can’t hit a tree with a shotgun from five yards away,” Annabeth muttered.
“You don’t know that. Maybe he can.”
“I know he isn’t Luke. Dammit, Moze. What a waste!”
“I’ll keep looking.”
“You’ve done a fine job so far.”
He remained silent, and she felt bad. Moze loved Luke, too.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . . All that work. The lies. Ethan. Mikey. Castle Thunder, Moze. And we still don’t have Luke. We aren’t even sure if he was in that prison in the first place. What if he was hung for a partisan?”
“I think they might have mentioned that when we asked to get him back.”
“I think they might not have,” Annabeth murmured.
“I’ll find him. I promise.” Moze stood; his gaze flicked around the barren farmhouse. Only a few crates and the sofa, no doubt too big to drag off on a horse, remained. “Maybe you should come with me.”
“Maybe you should—” Annabeth bit off the angry suggestion. She’d made quite a few since he’d carted her bodily away from Ethan and deposited her here. “I’m staying. Luke might wander down the lane tomorrow.”
“I’m not a fool, Annie Beth Lou. It isn’t Luke you’re waiting for.”
• • •
Ethan watched Mikey pace in front of the windows like a caged beast. Sometimes he even growled.
“Gotta find him,” Mikey muttered.
“Mike—” Ethan paused as Mikey swung around, fists clenched. “Mikhail,” he corrected. “Who are you looking for?”
“My brother, Alexi.”
Ethan managed not to flinch. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Mikey rubbed at his head. Ethan fought not to yank his fingers away. Not only might that result in a punch to the face—his once-gentle brother had become inexplicably violent—but Mikey’s injury was nearly healed—at least on the outside. Ethan doubted touching the scar would cause any further damage.
“Where am I?” Mikey asked.
He’d asked before, and Ethan had answered. Maybe one of these times the words would help Mikey remember the truth.
“Castle Thunder Prison.”
“Prison.” Mikey’s nose wrinkled. “Don’t like the smell.”
“I know, Mikey.”
“Don’t call me that!” His fingers clenched again. “What kind of man lets hisself be called by that baby name? I’m Mikhail.” He slammed his fist into his chest. “Mikhail Romanov.”
“All right,” Ethan agreed, though he doubted he’d ever be able to address Michael Walsh as Mikhail Romanov. “Maybe you could describe your brother. Maybe I just don’t know him by name.”
Mikey’s fingers unfurled. “Dark hair, blue eyes. ’Bout the same height as you. Talks real purdy in all sorts of languages.”
Fedya.
“His name isn’t Alexi,” Ethan began.
Mikey drove his fist into the wall. The plank cracked. A second blow caused the wood to splinter.
“Hey!” the nearest guard shouted. “Stop that! You want I should fetch Beltrane?”
Ethan lifted his hand. “It’s all right. I’ll—” He paused. What would he do? His brother not only didn’t know him, but he didn’t seem to like him much either.
“Gotta find him,” Mikey repeated. “All we have is each other.”
Ethan should have been happy that Mikey was alive and able to walk, talk, feed, and dress himself. Instead, he was furious. He missed Annabeth so much sometimes, he thought he might die. If anything happened to her—
His fingernails bit into his palms. If anything happened to her, he wouldn’t know. Because he was in here, and she was . . . not. He felt so goddamn impotent.
“I’ll see if I can discover anything in regard to your brother,” Ethan said.
Perhaps he’d have more luck getting information about Fedya than he’d had when he tried to learn anything about Annabeth. But he doubted it.
“Gotta get out of here,” Mikey muttered, then wandered away.
For the next few days, Ethan was occupied with an outbreak of fever, and without Annabeth’s or Mikey’s help, he fell onto his cot exhausted long after midnight. He saw his brother here and there; he seemed to be making friends among the inmates.
One afternoon, a commotion at the front of the factory drew Ethan’s attention. The guards shouted, shoving prisoners. The prisoners laughed and jeered.
Ethan wandered in that direction. “What happened?”
“Escape attempt.”
“Again?” Escape attempts were common. Very few succeeded. They were in the middle of the Confederate capital with armies all around. Where would they go?
“One got away.” The prisoner grinned. “Can’t find him nowheres.”
“Which one?” Ethan asked.
“That Russian feller.” Ethan stilled as the man tapped his forehead. “One that done got shot in the head. Can’t say’s it slowed him down none.”
• • •
Annabeth spent most of her time on the farm. Whenever she went to town, people whispered—traitor, sympathizer, spy. A few even spat. Richmond might be the capital of the Confederacy, but gossip traveled. What else did folks have to do but share the story of how the Chimborazo matron turned nurse had been carted off to Castle Thunder with a spy. That she’d been released eventually did not signify innocence. Instead it only inspired more tales of what she might have done to secure that freedom.
Annabeth laid her palm protectively over her still-flat stomach. As time went on, it was only going to get worse.
Moze brought food. She didn’t tell him about the whispers or the spitting—or her stomach. What good would it do? He’d want her to leave, and she wasn’t going to go. But she didn’t sleep well. She started up at every rustle. One night, several weeks after she’d returned to the farm, she heard a lot more than that.
“Annabeth Phelan! Come on out here now. You make us come in, you might not like what happens.”
She already knew she wasn’t going to
like what happened.
Her fingers tightened around her Colt as she went to the window. Six men. She didn’t know them. So how in hell did they know her?
“Can’t fraternize with the enemy and expect to walk free and easy now, can you?”
Wouldn’t do any good to explain that she’d been working secretly for the South. No one would believe her.
Annabeth set down her daddy’s Colt and went outside.
• • •
In the spring of 1865, the war ended at last. Once Ethan was released from prison, he was able to return to Chimborazo and retrieve his things. He’d had the wherewithal to sew some gold pieces, along with his father’s watch and his mother’s ring, into the cuff of a very old pair of trousers. Once he ripped them open, he bought a horse, asked a few questions about the Phelans, and then followed the provided directions to the farm on the outskirts of Richmond.
As he dismounted, the wind whistled through the empty barn. Was the place as deserted as it felt? If he called her name, would she answer? What if she’d disappeared from Richmond as she’d disappeared from Castle Thunder? What if she were dead?
Ethan swallowed and went to the front door. Did he knock or did he just go in? He lifted his hand, but before he could decide, the door flew open.
“Your hair!” he blurted.
Annabeth lifted a hand to her shaved head. “It’ll grow back.”
“How?” he asked. “Why?”
“It’s a common punishment.”
“Punishment?” he repeated. “For what?” Ethan couldn’t think what she might have done to deserve this.
“Fraternizing with the enemy.”
It took him an instant to realize she meant him. Certainly she was from Virginia; he’d only pretended to be. But they’d worked at each other’s sides to save lives. Neither one of them had cared if those lives were Yankee or Reb.
“You were nursing soldiers,” he said. “Just because you were helping me—”
“I was doing more than helping you, Ethan.” Her gaze met his, and he remembered what they had done. The only thing that had kept him sane in the past three months was the hope that he could someday do it again.
