That was reasonable enough, but for some reason it irked Brandon. He hurried forward to clap a hand on his friend's shoulder. “Go get some rest, see your families,” he told his people. “I'll sort things out with Gray.”
The others nodded and wearily pushed to their feet, but Andy just shrugged wearily. “I'm good. Don't mind just sitting for a bit longer. Besides, I kind of want to hear how things have gone here.”
Hard to argue that. Brandon sighed and settled down next to his friend.
The Grand Junction leader started to crouch to get on their level, then grimaced down at his knees and instead leaned against the wall beside them. “How things have gone?” he said heavily. “We're being pressed from all sides is how. Fighting pitched battles pitting our newfound weapons, knowledge of this terrain, and preparation against superior numbers and training.
“It's working for now, and you and the other skirmishers have unleashed enough chaos to keep the enemy off-balance so they can never push us hard enough in any one place to find us. To them it must seem like we're all over these mountains, fighting them everywhere with no base of operations at all. But even our best efforts can't hide the hole in their search pattern where Camptown has to lie, the area we've desperately kept them from looking in. It's only a matter of time before they focus all their efforts here, and finally push through and find the bowl valley.”
Gray sighed, face as ashen as his name from weariness and mounting despair. “And of course the area north of here is a nightmare. They're dropping off troops wherever they need to be, driving them just where they'll cause us the worst headache in spite of not knowing where Camptown is. So far we've been managing, but things are going to get awfully tense soon, and we'll soon be having one pitched battle after another, with the enemy getting constant reinforcements from the highway.”
“They've already fixed Highway 29?” Andy demanded, looking irked. “We dropped an entire hillside on it.”
The militia leader nodded, lips in a thin line. “We have confirmation, both over radio and from scouts, that it's long since up and running.” He shook his head in disgust. “Heck, they're pouring more troops than ever onto it to search for us, as well as to deal with some sort of unrest they're running into with people giving them trouble up in the mountains of northern Utah. Radio chatter is full of it.”
Brandon bit back a curse. Granted, it had been a while since he'd taken out the road, and it wasn't the first time they'd seen the bloodies drive in a bunch of slaves to fix damage and get a road back up and running at the fastest possible speed.
Even so, he'd been hoping his efforts up there would've slowed the enemy down for longer than this, considering the good men who'd died to make it happen.
Andy wasn't so shy about sharing his own opinion, cursing a blue streak. At least until Gray gave him a level look. Even then, his friend didn't completely subside. “Ever feel like we're that guy from the Greek legends or whatever?” At Brandon's blank look he waved irritably. “You know, the one who had to constantly push the stone up the hill, then just when it's about to get to the top it rolls back down and he has to do it all over again?”
Well, that was a poetic summary of the situation. “Wouldn't it be the other way around, though?” Brandon asked him. “We roll the stones down, then someone puts them back up and we have to do it all over again?”
Andy gave him a look of grim amusement. “Well when you put it like that, it sounds like we've got the easy part, and the bloodies have all the hassle. So what's stopping us from going and doing it again?”
Gray made a low sound in his throat. “The five hundred or so troops swarming this area, less those we've killed?” he growled. “The fact that in the last week our fighters have gone out and engaged Sangue in a dozen diversions and three pitched battles to turn them back, and in this last one we lost almost twenty people and had even more wounded before reinforcements could arrive to turn the tide?”
The militia leader swept a disgusted hand eastwards. “Or the fact that our skirmishers operating in the east were forced to divert a huge group of bloodies and wandered way off their territory, then got ambushed and nearly wiped out, so I'll have to send another squad of fighters I can't spare to replace them.”
Brandon stiffened, and Andy opened his mouth angrily, but Gray rolled right over them. “Or the fact that the skirmishers I sent north are days past when they should've reported in, and our scouts there report another force of bloodies almost a hundred strong that we're going to have to find a way to destroy or divert.”
Brandon was done.
Whatever spirit breaking demands the future had for him, he was at his limit today. The weight of responsibility had already crushed him, and the weight of guilt and grief piled on top was grinding him into the dirt.
Now that he'd seen that Mer got the help she needed, it was time to do what little he could for the skirmishers beyond help. The ones he'd failed.
He hauled himself to his feet and walked away without a word. His bed lured him forward like a siren's song, his wife and baby the only two people he wanted to see right now, but he couldn't go to them just yet.
Instead he wove his way through Camptown to where a few tents had been rigged into a larger and more permanent shelter. It was where the Berton family and a few of their friends were staying, one of the few groups who had yet to begin a cabin for themselves, because they'd been better off than most when it came to shelter and their men were all busy helping the rest of the town or fighting Sangue.
Brandon spent almost five minutes standing outside the modest structure, mustering his courage. Then he stepped forward and gently rapped on the entry flap.
A few moments later it was pulled aside, a woman a few years older than him holding a candle up as she peered out into the night. “Brandon?” she said, visibly brightening. “You're back!” She eagerly leaned around him, searching the darkness. “Come to personally bring Zeke home, so he doesn't go looking for Neal and a drink to unwind?”
Maybe it was his expression or the cold, lonely night he stood in, but even as she said the words he could hear the excitement draining from her voice. The torrent of emotions starting to creep across her face as she began to realize what this was.
Brandon swallowed hard, vision blurring from tears. “I couldn't bring him home, Lindsey,” he whispered. His voice caught, and he had to clear his throat to continue. “I'm so sorry.”
* * * * *
It took hours to make six visits.
For some, he was able to offer the family and friends of his skirmishers the feeble hope that their loved ones were simply missing. Although he had to make clear the grim situation they'd been in, and gently warn them to prepare for the worst.
For the rest, he had to report the deaths of those he knew had fallen in that disastrous ambush, and to offer what feeble condolences he could to good people as their worlds shattered around them. Then witness the grief and devastation, do his best to answer the halting questions as loved ones struggled to come to grips with a reality that didn't include husbands, fathers, sons, brothers.
To endure the fury and accusations of those who blamed him, and in many ways worse the understanding and kindness of those who didn't.
By the time he was finished with the duty he felt dead on his feet, in every way imaginable. His feelings had numbed to the point where he was left hollow, his weary thoughts able to process nothing but the need to get home to his family.
Their cabin was dark when he arrived, meaning Fiona was probably asleep and Thomas certainly was. Not surprising, considering the hour. Brandon entered as quietly as he could, which wasn't saying much for a door of saplings held together with twine on leather hinges; it gave a loud creak as he pushed it open, and somehow an even louder one as he pushed it shut.
“Brandon?” his wife's voice squeaked from the darkness, tight with barely restrained panic offset by the faintest thread of hope.
Of course, he should've known to say something even i
f he thought she was asleep; she'd suffered too many things in the past that would make her wake in terror at the slightest sound. If he hadn't been preoccupied with his own despondency he would never have been so thoughtless.
“It's me,” he whispered. “Just got back.”
“Oh thank God.” He heard a rustle in the darkness, then grunted and nearly fell over as Fiona slammed against his chest, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tight. “Are you okay?” she demanded between peppering his face with kisses. “Are you back for long?”
“I . . .” Brandon knew he should talk to her, that she deserved to know what had happened, but he couldn't bring himself to say the words. “I don't know, Fi.”
His wife knew him better than anyone, better than he knew himself he sometimes thought. At hearing his tone she gave him another hug, longer and full of comfort. Then without a word she helped him undress in the dark and settled him down on the bed, cuddling him and gently stroking his shoulder as he gave in to exhaustion.
But as tired as he was, sleep wouldn't come. Now that he was back in Camptown and knew the fate of Pine and the others who hadn't made it back, their faces joined the others he'd failed. The friends he'd gotten killed.
He knew they'd haunt his dreams if he closed his eyes.
He was hoping Fiona would fall asleep, even if he couldn't, but she sensed he was awake even though he did his best to pretend otherwise. “Too tired to sleep?” she whispered after what could've been minutes or an hour.
“I guess,” he said noncommittally. Since she'd broken the feigned silence of sleep anyway, he took the opportunity to shift position and move an arm that was falling asleep under even her slight weight.
His wife's tone gained a tentative, teasing note. “I know something that usually helps you sleep like a rock,” she suggested, kissing his shoulder.
Brandon couldn't think of a time he'd ever failed to jump at that offer, exhausted and dispirited or not. But there was a first for anything, he supposed. He shook his head and gently rubbed her back, soaking in her comforting presence as a balm against the numb hole in his chest. “Fi, I got half the skirmishers killed.”
She stiffened in shock, and with his eyes more used to the dark he could see the whites of her wide eyes looking up at him. “What?”
He dully told her what had happened, not leaving anything out. He thought he should be crying, should be having trouble forcing the words out, but it was like there was a barrier between him and the vast gulf of grief and guilt that had been eating at him for days. Instead his voice came out leaden, hollow.
“Oh honey,” Fiona whispered when he finally fell silent. “Oh honey, I'm so sorry.” She burrowed her head against his chest, and he could feel tears dripping onto his skin. “I wish I could make your pain go away.”
Pain? At the moment Brandon could barely feel anything but numb exhaustion and despair. “Don't worry about me,” he said. His voice came out thicker than he'd expected, a surprise considering his hollow state, and he cleared his throat sharply. “How can I complain about anything, when I'm surrounded by people who've suffered so much worse? When I'm responsible for so much pain in the people I care about?”
She made a sad sound and lifted her head to brush his lips with hers, then pressed her tearstained cheek to his. Her silky hair tickled his face, carrying to him the faded scents of sunlight and grass. “A lot of folks have suffered a lot,” she agreed quietly, voice full of all the gentleness in the world. “But so have you. Just because others might've been hurt worse, doesn't make your own pain any less.”
Brandon blinked against a sudden burning in his eyes, the emotions he'd walled off sneaking through his defenses.
Fiona seemed to sense it, because she continued in a voice so full of love that it took his breath away for a moment. “For years, Brandon Gerry, you stayed with me when I needed you most, even though any sane man would've long since given up and walked away. You let me heap all my pain and fear and suffering on you without a word of complaint. You led me through the darkest time in my life, to where I could see light on the other side.”
Her voice caught, thick with emotion. “You gave me a future. You gave me a family. You and Thomas are everything to me.” She'd been hugging him fiercely, but somehow she managed to hold him even tighter. “I swore that I would be there for you the same way, when you needed me.”
Slowly, tenderly, she shifted around and pulled his head down to her shoulder. “Tomorrow you'll go back to doing what you need to do, but tonight you're going to let me hold you and just feel what you need to feel.”
Brandon's strength suddenly gave out, and he clutched his wife as if she was a life preserver in the midst of a raging sea. She supported him, tough as nails in spite of her vulnerable exterior.
And held up by her quiet strength his emotional barriers shattered, the pain seeping through in a trickle becoming a flood.
He thought of the skirmishers he'd been responsible for, the people he'd failed. And he thought of all the other friends he'd lost, loved ones he'd barely had a chance to grieve for in the chaos of one fight after another over the last few weeks.
He was just so tired. So tired that it felt like only his need to stay strong for his people had kept him upright as the weight of everything, this whole hopeless situation, settled heavier and heavier on his shoulders. A weight he bore alone, so his skirmishers wouldn't have to be crushed by it and could just focus on the vital task of keeping the enemy off-balance and confused and sleeping with one eye open.
A weight he bore so Fiona wouldn't have to, when she already faced her own burdens worrying for her husband and battling the demons of the past. “I don't know if I can keep going, Fi,” he whispered brokenly. “I'm so tired.”
Fiona began rocking him gently, rubbing his back. “I know,” she said quietly.
He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, while he let himself grieve and his wife held him close. Finally, he wasn't sure quite when, his shuddering sobs slowed to a stop.
And he sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * * * *
Brandon woke to the warm, familiar presence of his wife pressed against him, and the soft cooing sounds of baby Thomas beginning to stir himself awake for his morning feeding. He hadn't even heard his son wake in the night to be fed, so Fiona must've hurried to care for the baby for his sake.
For a few minutes he lay still, staring up at the dim underside of the cabin's roof. A full night's rest had done a world of good, settling his mind and allowing him to think more clearly; in that strange way of exhaustion, he hadn't even realized how muddled his thoughts were.
His heart was still heavy with grief and guilt, and he was still fully aware that his mistakes had cost the lives of friends, good people. The crushing weight of responsibility hadn't lifted off his shoulders. But the opportunity to open up to Fiona, along with a night of surprisingly restful sleep, had eased some of the burden.
It hadn't brought peace, of course. True peace and healing would take a long time, and likely wouldn't come for as long as Sangue remained in the area. But it had brought . . . acceptance, maybe. Restoration of enough of his resolve to shoulder the burden again and keep on plodding forward.
The baby's cooing noises had gained a plaintive note, and Brandon quietly slipped out from beneath the covers and leaned over the cradle to pick him up, cuddling him in his arms as he settled down on the end of the bed. Thomas's big eyes, a light hazel that almost reached his mommy's green in the right lighting, focused on his daddy's face, and his little hands reached up to grasp at his nose.
Brandon smiled, feeling unexpected tears sting his eyes, and leaned down to kiss the baby's soft wisps of light brown hair. “Look at you, bud,” he murmured. “You got bigger just since I saw you last. You'll be walking around in no time.”
He heard a soft rustle of cloth, then Fiona leaned her head on his shoulder from behind to brush their son's cheek with a finger. “Hungry?” she said softly.
Brandon's stomach growled at the question; he hadn't eaten since snatching a few bites in the saddle yesterday afternoon during their hurried march back home. “Starving.” He gently rocked the baby in his arms. “But this little guy's been waiting patiently for his breakfast, and I don't mind letting him eat first.”
Fiona chuckled ruefully. “There's no need to take turns. These days we're mostly eating those awful Sangue rations, and those don't exactly take much preparation.” Her tone became apologetic. “I could have a word with Mother Kristy, see if we can't cook you up a proper breakfast to celebrate you coming home safe.”
He grimaced, really not in the mood to celebrate. Even if it meant a good meal. “Rations are fine,” he said, gently twisting to hand Thomas to his mommy. Then he leaned over to rustle in the sacks where they stored the food to keep critters out; the house wasn't exactly great at keeping out pests, and he hadn't had time to properly block all the openings. “Want one?”
She returned his grimace. “I'm in no hurry. I'll join you after he's eaten.”
Brandon nodded and snagged a single bar, peeling back the wrapper and taking a cautious bite. It was dry, chalky, and coated his teeth in an unpleasant fuzz. Obviously the rations' designers had tried to inject some flavor, from his distant memories from before the Ultimatum he identified it as lemon, but they hadn't done a good job and the bar was so bland it was a chore to chew in spite of his hunger.
As he struggled to choke down the unappetizing food, Fiona settled down beside him and adjusted her blouse so the baby could latch on.
Eating with his family was something he'd deeply missed while he'd been out skirmishing, and aside from the poor fare it was a pleasant meal. Thomas made contented noises as he nursed, while Fiona let out occasional sounds of discomfort when he nipped her with his new teeth that were starting to come in.
Once the baby had had his fill, Fi joined Brandon eating a ration bar, crumbling off tiny pieces to try to tempt Thomas with; from the adorable expressions on the baby's face as he tasted the food, it looked as if he didn't like it any more than they did.
Mountain Man (Book 5): Final Stand [Last Ditch] Page 12
