Glory Bound (Shades of Gray Serial Civil War Trilogy Book 3)

by Jessica James

  There was no movement. No sound anywhere. It seemed the world had stopped.

  “Andrea!” He reached out to touch her, to somehow stop the vital current that continued to spurt like an endless fountain from her motionless form.

  That’s when he noticed the gun, still smoking, in his hand.

  No-o-o!

  * * *

  “Colonel. You all right?” Carter knelt beside his commander.

  Hunter sat straight up, gasping for breath, his hands clenched into fists. “Is she dead?”

  “Is who dead?”

  Hunter appeared drenched, like he had been caught in a downpour. He rubbed his hand through sweaty hair, and looked over Carter’s shoulder apprehensively, as if expecting to find something there.

  “You sure you’re all right, Colonel?” Carter put a tentative hand on his arm. “You kill someone we don’t know about?” He tried to make a joke, but he could see it was no laughing matter. He felt Hunter trembling through the heavy woolen coat, and his clothes were so damp with sweat they steamed in the cool night air. Hunter continued to stare into the darkness, breathing heavily, his face ashen and grave.

  “Here,” Carter instructed, digging through a saddlebag. “Take a swig of this.”

  Hunter accepted the small flask, but his hand still trembled so violently that the liquid within it sloshed out the top before he could bring it to his lips. He handed it back without drinking, exasperated. “I’m all right.”

  “Umm, Colonel?”

  “Yes, Carter, what’s on your mind?”

  “Sir, you haven’t been to Hawthorne for more than month.” He tried to sound casual, though he’d been rehearsing the words all day. “The men are tired—and you’re in the saddle twice as much as they are. The enemy is in winter quarters. Perhaps it’s time for a rest.”

  Indeed Hunter had not permitted his men to be idle for more than a day for more than two months. The ranks were shrinking with the wounded and those who could not keep up with the incessant pace. By Carter’s math, most of the men had been in some of the thirty-two skirmishes in the past twenty-nine days—and Hunter had been in all of them.

  Hunter looked hard at Carter, but it was no longer the intimidating look of his old commander. It was the look of a man lost. A man in the very depths of an abyss of despair.

  Carter cleared his throat in preparation for what he was about to say next. He dug a hole in the snow with the heel of his boot and then stared meditatively at it for a few long moments before having the nerve to continue. “I’m afraid, sir, that something is erasing your concentration. I think a short break would benefit you—and the Command.”

  Carter knew damn well what that “something” was. There could, after all, be but one reason for a man to sit up half the night without speaking, his gaze lost in a campfire. Or for a man’s eyes to turn beseechingly skyward in those lonely hours just before dawn as if wishing to hurry the ritual of the breaking of day.

  “I guess it has been a while since I’ve been to Hawthorne,” Hunter finally said.

  Carter cringed at the answer. He knew Hunter had never been away from the estate for this long in his entire life, yet it appeared that returning to his homestead no longer held any temptation for him. The battle raging inside his commander was a severe one, paling in comparison to all of the other battles he had henceforth fought.

  “The men are tired?” Hunter looked into Carter’s eyes, finally focused.

  “Yes, sir. Horses too.”

  Hunter nodded in such a way that made it obvious he had not noticed. He’d been trying so hard to keep his mind from going astray that he had not detected the horses’ exhaustion or the men’s discontent.

  “It’s almost Christmas, sir.”

  Carter watched Hunter’s eyes as he took in the information. He seemed surprised and confused by the revelation. Or perhaps he was just recalling what he had been doing exactly one Christmas ago.

  “Very well. After this raid, tell the men to return to their homes. I’ll gather them in a couple of days.”

  When Carter sighed loudly, he spoke again.

  “Very well. A week.”

  Carter waited, hoping Hunter would want to talk, but the sound of a train whistle in the distance brought the Colonel to his feet.

  “Get the men ready,” was all he said, before walking stiffly toward his horse.

  Carter’s gaze remained on Hunter as he strode silently across the moonlit field and went through the motions of preparing his mount. The man who had always possessed such extraordinary control over his feelings appeared distracted and hopeless, making it clear that a battle between the heart and mind—and regret and guilt—was being waged within.

  War was usually good for taking the mind off things, but Carter could see not even that was sufficient to release his commander from the terrible turmoil within.

  Chapter 10

  A broken heart, my Lord my King, is all the sacrifice I bring. The God of grace will ne’er despise, a broken heart for sacrifice.

  – Psalm 50, Isaac Watts

  Hunter rode up the long drive to Hawthorne just after dark, his cloak drawn close, head bent down against the icy breath of winter blowing down from the mountains. He may have well been sleeping, so little did he see or comprehend as he rode alone through the gates of the estate.

  Snow had been falling with great fury for almost an hour now, covering the mansion and its surrounding in a great fleecy mantle. But the quietness and the beauty of the night remained unnoticed as he reined his horse to a stop and stared.

  The house appeared like a silent tomb, looking anything but welcoming…almost as if it too had surrendered to a prevailing spirit of misery. Hunter wondered if he had made a mistake in coming here…home.

  He exhaled in frustration. Just thinking about the word made him feel like a hypocrite. Insincere. He tried to recall the times when returning to this place brought him joy and a sense of peace, but those memories were no longer fresh—or even believable. The notion that he’d once been happy here made him feel even less welcome and more abandoned.

  Truth be told, he had barely been back since Andrea departed, and not at all in almost three months. It was as if Hawthorne had turned against him. The house, the grounds, and the spirit that once was Hawthorne no longer seemed to want him here. Even now the wind belted him, feeling as if someone’s invisible arms were chastising him for returning.

  But right or wrong, he was back. It’s time to face the ghosts here…and put them to rest for good.

  Not that he had a choice in the matter. Carter had pretty much ordered him to do so—for the good of his men.

  Impulsively Hunter glanced up to her window. Of course it was dark—no light emanated there like the one that had welcomed him home countless times before. Only now, as he sat in profound silence staring, did he realize how much that warm, welcoming beam had meant to him. The solitary glow peeking through the window had always managed to banish the gloom of war, bringing with a feeling of serenity and security—and belonging.

  As if giving voice to his thoughts, the wind suddenly rose in a loud sorrowful wail, pointing out the rude contrast of the scene before him to that which he recalled. When last he had gazed with wistful eyes toward that room, golden rays of sun had warmed his cheek. Now a northern wind roared by his ears and assailed his exposed skin with its biting gusts.

  The horse beneath him stamped the ground impatiently, as if reminding him that he was not the only one being assaulted by the wind. Making his way to the barn, Hunter untacked the horse within its warm confines and left him in a stall already well stocked with hay.

  He paused only once on his way back to the house, and was barely able to make out the dim outline of its peaks against the blowing snow. Could anything be in more complete contradiction to the warm, inviting home he had left? Once a place of so much life, now it seemed the hush of death lived here. Hard to believe this was the same house, the same
great halls, the same fields, where he had roamed and rambled and resided all these years.

  As Hunter ascended the steps of the porch, the wave of memories he’d worked hard to suppress came rising up to the surface. He could picture her standing there by the railing as if in greeting, unconscious of cold and snow as she gazed out into the darkness with a look of haunting splendor radiating from her eyes. Time had proved an insufficient shield against the ghost of her presence. He had only to close his eyes to conjure her in detail

  Cursing aloud, he strode across the wide porch and pushed on the door, struggling a moment with its reluctance to comply. When it finally gave way with a loud, unwelcoming groan, Hunter stepped across the threshold, and jolted when the wind performed the task of closing the heavy wooden door behind him with a loud bang.

  The foyer in which he stood was not only dark, but as cold and uninviting as an abandoned barn. The overpowering effect of the damp and gloom chilled him to the bone, and made him wonder if a fire had been lit in its halls since the day he’d departed.

  Feeling his way to a side table he lit a lamp, though its tiny flame did little to melt away the dreariness of the scene. His eyes came to rest on a vase full of flowers with long-dead blooms. The sight of them caused Hunter to recall a time when floral arrangements abounded, spilling their fragrance throughout the halls…back when the evidence of a woman’s hand had been everywhere apparent…when this house had felt like a home.

  Staring into space, Hunter became so transfixed that he could almost hear the sound of a tapping cane and the pattering of bare feet moving unevenly through the house. The memories ran through him like a gush of light and life. How he yearned to see her coming toward him now, even it was only to inflict on him nothing but her special brand of Yankee fury. Oh, how he would welcome that chin of iron determination and those ferocious green eyes now.

  Something about those thoughts made standing difficult. Hunter came out of his spell and glared at the vase. The flowers were brown and brittle, and the room where he stood smelled more like a musty tomb than of sweet bouquets. He swiped his arm across the tabletop as if the long-forgotten blossoms were the cause of all his troubles, and sent the decaying plants crashing to the floor.

  Moving trancelike now he started for the stairs, but could not will his body to mount them. Twice he advanced, faltered and retreated, then turned in agonizing haste toward his library and the bottle of brandy he kept within.

  Hunter wondered curiously if this was how the house had looked before Andrea…before her laughter and limitless spirit had flowed through its halls like a constant stream of sunshine and storm. How had he survived before the smile and the spark in those unforgettable eyes? And how could he survive now that everything had been whirred away in a gray mist of time and distance?

  Wearied beyond endurance from his ride, and fatigued mentally by the images that haunted him, Hunter lit a candle and sat down at his desk. He glanced once around the room before reaching for the bottle that would help calm his nerves and bring him peace.

  * * *

  Hunter awoke to the smell of something burning. Lifting his head slowly off the desk, he tried to focus through the swirling smoke of a candle that had apparently just been extinguished. Mattie stood just beyond with her hands on her hips.

  “Someone gonna burn the house down, leaving candles incineratin’ all night.” She pointed to the short glob of wax that remained. “Lucky for you, I got heah just in time.”

  Hunter groggily rubbed his eyes and stared at her through the red-eyed haze of alcohol.

  “I thought you had gone,” he said groggily.

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “Away.” He shrugged. “I thought you were gone.”

  He leaned backward as Mattie leaned forward as if to swat him. “I see how you come in here all clumsy, knocking over vases in the dawk.” She sounded exasperated, but her eyes were full of silent understanding. “But don’t worry, I cleaned up the mess.”

  Hunter didn’t know what to say, and for once he was the one who looked away first. “Thanks, Mattie,” he murmured as she left the room still shaking her head.

  As Hunter listened to pots clanking in the kitchen, he put his face in his hands and took a deep breath. Morning light was doing nothing to ease the feeling that he no longer belonged here. Upon standing, he immediately grabbed his aching head and groaned. His neck was stiff and his leg was asleep. He swore under his breath as he stumbled out the door.

  Again he paused at the bottom of the steps, but finally pulled himself up the stairs by the railing. He started to walk by her room, as he had done every other time he’d been home, but something stopped him.

  This is why you came. Open it.

  Placing a shaky hand on the knob he pushed the door open, ignoring its loud whine of revolt. He stood silently, his gaze roaming the room, but there was really nothing to see. It was dark and stark and bare, just like the rest of the house. Just like his heart. Yet blood began pumping wildly in a great rush through his body as each object, each piece of furniture upon which his eye rested, evoked fresh memories of loss.

  Truth and reality proved an insufficient shield against the ghost of her presence. He had only to close his eyes to conjure her in detail. How could he gaze upon this room and not remember eyes that changed shades as swiftly as her mood…and lips that would curl into a smile at the slightest provocation? How could he not remember that these four walls could sometimes barely contain the boundless energy that resided here? And how could he forget the very strength of her presence?

  His attention was drawn at last to the cane lying across the bed, its cherry finish covered in a thick coating of dust. The sight of it caused his chest to ache, yet already the thudding in his heart had begun to slow as his eyes scanned the room again.

  It was not here. The medallion he had given her had not been left behind. She had not severed all connection to Hawthorne. She still carried a piece of it with her.

  Yet the relief he felt was short-lived. The stark emptiness of the room struck him with such a force of finality that he sank to the floor, his head in his hands.

  There was no denying it now. She was really gone.

  Gone from this room, from this house, from his life.

  He tried to console himself with the faces of the many women who were ready and willing to take her place. But the thought did little to comfort him.

  Andrea was…Andrea.

  And no other person or thing could, or would ever, quite compare.

  * * *

  Mattie stared out the window at the snow still falling after fixing Hunter a hearty breakfast. “That poor Andrea,” she said to Izzie. “Out there all alone in the freezingness.”

  “She want to be out there, Momma,” Izzie said wistfully, tracing letters Andrea had taught her on the frosty windowpane.

  “No she don’t,” Mattie huffed, waving a spoon in the air as she talked. “If it weren’t for Ole Him making her go, she be right heah in this warm kitchen—”

  She stopped when she noticed Hunter standing in the door, an expression on his face that revealed acute pain.

  “I’s sorry, massa…I didn’t mean…” she stopped in mid-sentence, not knowing what to say. Never in all her years had she seen such a look in those gray eyes.

  Hunter stood in the doorway for another moment without speaking, then turned and disappeared. Mattie listened to the powerful, purposeful stride of his footsteps as they retreated down the hall to the foyer, followed closely by the slam of the front door. She moved nearer to the window and watched as he pulled on his overcoat while walking toward the barn. His shoulders were bent against the driving snow, and his great coat, once on, billowed out behind him.

  He had been back barely a day and now he was leaving.

  Mattie knew he would never admit to anyone that he missed that girl, but the truth had been evident in his eyes.

  Andrea Evans had been the reflection
of his own soul. And Mattie assumed it was only now he was realizing it.

  Chapter 11

  The scenes on this field would have cured anybody of war.

  – Union General William Tecumseh Sherman

  Andrea ignored the unearthly scream of shells. She moved from wounded soldier to wounded soldier, trying to give aid and comfort to those who lay where they fell in the midst of the thunder of guns.

  She was not unaware of the chaos or the dreadful suffering and agony around her. She was simply too exhausted and concentrating too much on her duties to take much notice of it.

  The field on which she worked was a vast plain of wreckage, as if a great storm from a place worse than hell had swept through. Though shells occasionally exploded overhead or struck the ground beside her with dangerous violence, she would not leave the field. She refused to allow brave men to lie in hellish misery until such time as the two sides decided to end the day’s slaughter.

  Despite the hot, penetrating rays of the sun, Andrea continued to work mechanically, moving from one soldier to the next under the blasting breath of lead, her mind too exhausted with lack of sleep and too fatigued by despair to take notice of the vast wasteland of mutilated humanity that surrounded her.

  At times, when the shelling became vicious, she would lie on the ground and wait for the storm to blow over, rising again to work beneath the murky canopy of smoke above. In those moments of chaos and devastation, she strove to ignore as best she could the blood-soaked ground beneath, and pretended not to see the field deluged with misery, or hear the piteous cries of the dying.

  Lifting her eyes briefly in an attempt to get her bearings through the thick haze of smoke, Andrea caught a glimpse of the seemingly endless sea of writhing humanity strewn around her. The beautiful rolling hills of Virginia were nothing like she had once known them. The paradise she had once considered beautiful was now a living hell. Andrea lowered her eyes again and moved on. She could help but one at a time. There was no use agonizing over it.