The Vacant Chair (2 page)

While they waited, he helped her gather the last of the scattered pages. She eyed his uniform, her attention lingering on the red neckerchief around his throat. “I see you’re one of Custer’s Wolverines,” she said with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am. Born and raised just outside of Detroit.”

“I understand the Michigan Brigade is a force to be reckoned with.”

“That we are. It’s a reputation we’re proud of.”

She tucked the pages back into the books and cradled them to her breast, drawing his gaze there in spite of his best intentions. “Is it a long march for you today?”

“Always,” he said with a grin. Whenever they weren’t skirmishing or in outright combat, they had reconnaissance and other duties to carry out.

Williams arrived with a commandeered buckboard and climbed out of it to assist the other nurse up, while Justin helped the auburn-haired woman into it.

Her gloved fingers closed around his as she set her foot on the running board. She flashed an almost shy smile at him when he handed her up into the back of it beside her friend. The spices of Christmas morning filled his nose as she passed him, hints of cinnamon and cloves. He caught himself taking another deep breath of her and sent a warning glare at a group of soldiers staring in her direction, who quickly got back to work clearing the mess. Once she was settled, Justin released her hand and returned to his horse, busy eating tender shoots of new grass at the side of the road. Setting his left foot in the stirrup, he mounted Boy-o and rode beside the buckboard as escort, his every sense attuned to the auburn-haired woman.

“He’s a beautiful animal,” she commented a moment later, studying him. “A Morgan?”

Her knowledge of horses took him by surprise. “Yes, ma’am. You’ve a good eye.”

She shrugged. “My father bred many different kinds of horses. And my brother’s name is Morgan as well.” There was a note of wistfulness in her voice.

“This is Boy-o,” he told her, giving his mount’s coal black neck a solid pat.

He was vividly aware of her gaze on him, direct and unflinching, and how it stirred his blood. Cocking her head, she picked up the thread of conversation. “Did you name him?”

“I did.”

“You’re Irish, then?”

“Through and through. I hope that doesn’t lessen your opinion of me in any way.” He lifted a teasing eyebrow.

She laughed softly. “Not at all, since I’m half Irish myself.”

“Yes, and her temper is completely Irish,” her friend—Ella-May?—put in with a cheeky grin.

The woman gave her a playful smack on the arm. “Hush, or you’ll ruin the captain’s impression of me. My temper’s much better than it used to be,” she assured him. “It only flares up occasionally now.”

“Yes, and mostly because of a surgeon or orderly being negligent in their duties,” Ella-May said in her defense. “Then Brianna’s a force to be reckoned with.”

Brianna shrugged, her expression set and unapologetic. “I won’t tolerate having a patient’s wellbeing or comfort jeopardized because of neglect or ignorance.”

He eyed her in curiosity, wondering why the devil a woman like her was toiling amid the horrors of a military hospital. She seemed too elegant, too refined for that sort of work. “I hope you’ll pardon me for saying so, but you don’t look like a nurse.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh? And what, pray tell, does a nurse look like?”

Nothing like her, that was for certain. “In my experience? Old. Stern. Ugly.”

She burst out laughing and he smiled, enjoying the happy sound. “Well, I am one, though believe me, it took me a long time to secure my position.”

“Did you nurse before the war?” he asked, curious as to what had made her choose such a bloody vocation.

Her smile dimmed a fraction. “No.” She dropped her gaze to her hands where she smoothed them over her dark gray muslin skirt. “I lost someone important to me at the start of the war and made up my mind I had to do something to stop others from losing loved ones if I could. And so, here I am.”

A noble enough cause, to be sure. Had she lost a husband? With her gloves on, he couldn’t tell if she wore a wedding band or not.

She tilted her head, those cool gray eyes taking him in. “What about you? Did you enlist when the war broke out?”

“No, only last year.” His reasons for waiting were complicated, and the most important one was riding behind him somewhere in the column. “My younger brother signed up with me.” He had no idea why he was telling her this, but she made him feel completely at ease and he wanted to keep her talking.

She nodded. “Family is one of the most precious gifts of all, one we take for granted far too often.”

“That’s true.” But family responsibility also weighed on his shoulders like a yoke.

Her observant gaze settled on his shoulders and slid down his arms, taking in the tiny holes burned into his uniform. “It looks like you got too close to a fire recently.”

“I did. Only a few hot cinders got me though,” he answered. It could have been much worse. Almost had been.

Brianna studied him more closely. “Was it at the Wilderness?”

“Yes,” he said, again impressed by her perception. Perhaps she knew about the fires because she’d taken care of patients from that battle. God knew there’d been enough of them.

“Got it into his head to save a wounded Reb trapped by the fires,” Williams said from the other side of the buckboard. “He and his brother barely escaped the flames and came out half roasted themselves. Blacker than soot by the time I saw them come back out of the woods.”

“He exaggerates,” Justin said, remembering the horror of the wounded men’s screams as the voracious flames consumed them. Their terrified and agonized cries had made his skin crawl, so much worse than any he’d heard before. “We got out before the fire could trap us, with only our lungs the worse for wear.” He and Mitch had coughed for days afterward from inhaling all that thick black smoke.

Brianna’s face softened with admiration. “That was very gallant of you, especially since he was a Rebel. I’m sure he was grateful.”

“He was, though I didn’t know he was a Rebel when we went in after him.”

She tilted her head with a frown. “Would you have left him there had you known?”

“No,” he answered immediately. No man deserved to die that way. “So many wounded were trapped that night. The soldier we pulled out just happened to be close enough for us to reach in time and get him to a field hospital.” Justin had been about to hand the wounded man off to the orderlies when the Confederate had suddenly shot out a hand and gripped his forearm with surprising strength.
Thank you, Captain,
he’d whispered, the gratitude in his glistening brown eyes dispelling Justin’s weariness. He’d been in terrible pain, weak from blood loss, and still he’d found the strength to speak. 
I will never forget you…or what you’ve done for me.

“Then perhaps you saved his life a second time, as well,” Brianna added with a soft smile. “First from the fire, and then by taking him to the hospital where he could receive treatment.”

“I don’t know about that. His wounds were likely mortal.” Cahill, the man’s name was. Doubtful that he’d survived, considering the nature of the bullet wound in his bowels and how much blood he’d lost. Still, dying in a field hospital drugged with morphine was a far better fate than burning to death.

They passed the remainder of the ride in an easy silence and all too soon reached McClellan’s old supply base at White House Landing. Convalescing men in varying degrees of disability waited to board the white steamer berthed there, its funnel spewing a thick column of charcoal smoke. From arms in slings and heads in bandages to men on crutches and many missing limbs, Justin saw every conceivable kind of wound represented. Some men, too weak or injured to stand, lay on the ground on litters.

 “War is a terrible thing, isn’t it, Captain?” Brianna asked from beside him, seeing the direction of his gaze.

“Yes, it is.” But sometimes, there was no other way.

He dismounted to help her alight from the wagon. He closed his hands about her trim waist and she tensed, a pretty blush rising in her cheeks as she avoided his gaze. Justin smiled and set her on her feet in front of him, enjoying her response to his nearness. She was taller than average, the top of her head coming up to his shoulders. It fascinated him that an elegant woman like her could blush at such innocent contact. When she tugged off her gloves, he snuck a peek at her left hand and was surprised at the stab of disappointment he felt when he saw the wedding band on her finger.

Whoever he was, her husband was a lucky man.

Justin looked back up at her face and caught her staring at him. Flushing darker, she quickly averted her gaze and settled it on Boy-o. “May I say hello?”

“Of course.” Anything to delay her departure for another few minutes.

He held the bridle while his horse sniffed the palm she extended, the animal’s ears pricking forward as he blew a breath out of his flared nostrils. Her long, delicate fingers stroked his coal black forehead and nose while she crooned to him. Boy-o snuffled at her palm for a moment then butted her shoulder with his nose. She laughed, the clear, bright sound hitting Justin in the chest and making him smile.

“Oh, you’re just a big sweetheart, aren’t you?” She scratched the center of his forehead with one hand and ran the other along his sleek neck.

Justin was becoming jealous of his own damn horse for being petted and fawned over by this fascinating, self-assured woman.

After a minute Brianna stepped away and smoothed her skirts, meeting Justin’s gaze briefly as she tugged her gloves back on. He could see the feminine awareness in her eyes, mixed with curiosity. Interest and arousal flared to life inside him.

She gave his horse’s neck a final pat. “Goodbye, Boy-o. Take care of yourself and your owner.” That cool elegance was back firmly in place as she faced Justin once more. “Thank you for seeing us here safely, Captain.” 

He tipped his hat. “Not at all, ma’am. I hope I will have the pleasure again someday.”

She stilled at his words, searching his eyes so intently that he swore she was looking
into
him. Then, with a sad smile and a pointed glance at all the wounded men spread out before them she said, “For your sake, Captain, I hope you
never
see me again.”

Justin stared after her retreating figure, fighting the urge to deny her words. As though she felt the way his gaze lingered, she turned back once to offer a smile and wave from the dock, then left him watching her until she disappeared into the crowd.

Someone slapped a pair of reins into his hand. He blinked.

 His brother Mitch released Boy-o’s bridle with a knowing smirk and sat up taller atop his chestnut mare. Four years younger than Justin, Mitch never passed up a chance to needle him.“Quite an interesting day so far. Never seen you rendered speechless by a woman before.”

Well, it wasn’t every day a man got hit by lightning, was it? That’s what it had felt like the first time he’d looked into her clear gray eyes. And that voice…smooth and soft, with a hint of a southern accent. What was she doing up here in the middle of Union country, nursing Yankees?

Mitch chuckled and reached down to slap him on the back, all military protocol between officer and NCO forgotten. Or to be more precise, ignored. “She’s gone, Romeo, so pull yourself together before I decide to write a letter and rat you out to Laurel.”

“Who’s Laurel?” Lieutenant Williams asked as he rode up and stopped his horse beside Mitch’s.

“Nobody,” Justin muttered, shooting Mitch a dark look.

Mitch grinned like the devil he was, deep blue eyes identical to Justin’s gleaming with a wicked light. “She’s his sweetheart.”

“She’s not my sweetheart,” he growled. Laurel Stevens was as immature as she was annoying, and the last woman on earth he wanted to be saddled with, which he’d made abundantly clear. He looked back at the dock to search for Brianna, who seemed to be Laurel’s polar opposite in almost every way. That alone made her ten times more appealing.

Following his gaze, Williams laughed. “I don’t blame you, sir, even though I’m a married man. She was something, wasn’t she?”

She sure was, Justin thought, casting one final glance at her trim figure on the steamer’s upper deck as he led Boy-o away. Damn shame he’d never see her again.

Chapter Two

Cold Harbor, Virginia

June 1, 1864

Canteens and scabbards made hollow clanking sounds against each other as the regiment rode through the relentless heat. The sweat-stained horses kicked up clouds of dust thick enough to choke on in the stagnant air. Justin drew his dusty sleeve across his damp forehead and took a moment to fan his burning face with his hat. This entire campaign had been a series of bloodbaths. So many thousands had been maimed, butchered or killed already since the start of the spring campaign, and there was plenty of fighting left to be done. How much longer could his or Mitch’s luck hold through this sort of continuous slaughter?

The northern papers called Grant a butcher because of all the casualties. They could say what they wanted, because whatever conscience Grant lacked about losing men he made up for with sheer tenacity. Under any other general, the Army of the Potomac would have been retreating to Washington to lick its wounds right now. Instead, they were moving southward toward Richmond in a relentless series of flanking maneuvers. It boosted morale, but Wade Hampton and his cavalry were nearby, and another hard fight waited for them in the coming days.

Hoof beats drummed against the hard earth as a staff officer galloped up to him. His horse was lathered, its nostrils flaring as it sucked in air, sides heaving. “Captain!” the man shouted. “General Custer has received orders to form a line of battle. Bring your company up at once.” Without waiting for a reply, he tore down the dusty road to the next company officer.

Justin’s pulse kicked hard in his throat. Forcing an air of calmness, he ordered his men to the front of the column. In a clearing up ahead, they dismounted and took cover in the copse of trees lining the field. In the distance he saw nothing but dust and the outline of low hills to the south and west. Where were the Rebs? He pulled out his field glasses.

Officers galloped up and down the battle line, shouting orders and forming ranks. Their only reinforcements were the remaining cavalry in the rear. God knew how far behind them the infantry was. Could be hours, even days. For now Justin and the others were on their own, and being dismounted meant they were at three-quarter strength, with every fourth man behind the lines holding the horses. Taking into account the casualties they’d suffered, their fighting strength was well below what it should have been. Not a comforting thought.

A sudden boom shook the air, reverberating in his chest. A shell streaked through the sky toward them, fell short of their position and exploded, sending up a spray of earth and rock. “Get down!” he yelled to his men.

As the Confederate artillery opened up, the men scrambled to lie flat beneath the trees. Shells burst amongst the leafy branches, showering them with deadly splinters of wood and metal. Justin shouted at them to keep down and still, but the roar and the screaming shells drowned out his voice. He lay on his stomach with his troopers, covering his head with his arms to protect himself from the pelting dirt and debris. His heart hammered, instinct screaming at him to run. Training overrode it.

Keep still. One place is as safe as the next during a barrage.

It seemed a long time before the cannon fire stopped. His ears rang in the sudden silence. Raising his head, he caught a flash of movement and watched as his brother fell into position near the end of their line. Where the hell had he been? The choking dust kicked up by the barrage dissipated, replaced with an eerie stillness as they awaited the enemy attack they all knew was coming. Behind their line the horses pranced, as if they too sensed the imminent assault. His men crouched in the suffocating tension, weapons at the ready, their company positioned left of the main line. His muscles tightened as the interminable seconds ticked by.

When a scramble of hooves arose from the far right, he swiveled his head and held his breath. A squadron from the First Michigan burst from their position in a mounted charge, a galloping wall of sinew, muscle and bone hurling itself upon the enemy. A flash of brilliance gleamed as they drew sabers from scabbards, and a thunderous roar went up from the charging men.

Goose bumps erupted over his skin. Then a sheet of flame exploded from the distant enemy lines. The intense volley tore men and horses to pieces. Caps, weapons and body parts tossed up into the clear spring sky like leaves in a windstorm. Men fell to the ground, armless, legless, headless, twitching, heaving. Men screamed and choked on their own blood, clutching at their wounds with frantic hands. An injured horse dragged itself back to their lines by its forelegs, whinnying shrilly, its entrails trailing behind it.

Clenching his jaw, Justin drew a steadying breath and lowered his field glasses. He glanced over at his brother then farther down the line at the rest of his boys, many of them frightened green recruits rushed from the base at Culpeper to replace the wounded and dead lost early in the campaign.

At a movement in the distant screen of trees, his head snapped up. A line of Rebel troops materialized on the ridge. Sporadic shots whizzed overhead from the advance pickets, alerting him that the main body was ready to advance. The high-pitched whine of Minié balls pierced the air as the Confederates marched out. The heavy bullets slapped into the ground around him with audible thuds. Justin’s heart clattered against his ribs. Those damned rounds were getting closer with each volley.

“Get ready, boys,” he called. They raised their Spencer carbines.

Moments later, he glimpsed the first lines of gray filtering out of the trees. He tensed. With their tubular magazines, the Spencers gave them the advantage of superior firepower, but the shorter barrels meant they sacrificed distance. It seemed to take forever for the Rebels to come near enough for Justin and his men to do real damage.

“Aim.”

The rattle of hammers cocking filled the air.

The Reb’s advance line cleared the brow of the ridge and moved steadily toward them. Time slowed down with each step they took forward. Justin counted the paces, gauged the distance.

“Fire!”

The men opened up with their Spencers, the combined firepower deafening. Justin’s vision tunneled to his field of fire. He waited, focusing on his own targets amidst the rifle shots and smoke, the acrid bite of gunpowder strong in the air. More shots whizzed past him, some so close he heard the sizzling sound they made. When the enemy came within killing range of his own weapon, he aimed his revolver at the closest man to him and pulled the trigger. A red splotch bloomed on his chest as he fell. Justin pulled back the hammer for the next shot and chose another target.

Behind him, another officer snapped orders as he made his way down the line. “Keep your boys where they are, captain! They’re coming up full force at us.” 

Justin risked a glance behind him. “How many?” he shouted, ducking instinctively as a bullet zipped by his shoulder.

Atop his horse, the officer threw him an exasperated look and set down his field glasses. “Plenty. Give ’em the hot lead, boys! That’s it, that’s the ticket!” He waved his hat above his head, spurring on the troops. In the midst of his encouragement, his horse reared, unseating him as a bullet tore into its chest. It stumbled to its knees, thrashing and screaming while frothy blood poured from the wound. The officer scrambled to his feet, pulled out his revolver and put a bullet in its head. The horse slumped to the ground, but the man was already waving his saber around. “Give it to ’em boys! Pour it into ’em!”

The firing continued, growing thicker as they fought off the waves of infantry facing them. The lines seemed to melt on the distant slope. One dissolved in a hail of bullets, only to have another march up and immediately take its place. Justin’s men couldn’t keep up this volume of fire for long. Jesus, how many more were there? He pushed to his feet and ran in a crouch along his company line.

“Hold your positions!” They’d been ordered to hold the line until the reserve cavalry or infantry could relieve them, and there was no telling how long that would be. Worse, limited ammunition made shooting accuracy and reloading speed essential, and the raw recruits would be a liability. He glanced over and caught Mitch’s grim expression as he fired his carbine. Facing the enemy once more, Justin drew a deep breath and shouted, “Fire on my command! Ready!” The rhythmic clicking of hammers followed. 

“Aim, low!” New recruits always overshot their targets, especially under the stress of battle.

Gaining momentum as they advanced down the slope, the Rebels started up their eerie howl. A young recruit in front of him went pale, his hands shaking so badly one slipped off his rifle.

“Steady, boys,” Justin ordered, resting a solid hand on the youngster’s shoulder. The muscles under his hand vibrated, and he understood the trooper’s fear exactly.

The enemy drew closer with each breath, that damned Rebel yell raking over his skin like icy talons. His gut tightened.

Wait. Steady, wait…

Closer. Almost there. Almost…

Now.
“Fire!”

The combined explosion from the company’s Spencers rocked the line. The cloud of smoke worsened the visibility, and for a few agonizing moments Justin couldn’t see what they were shooting at or the effect their fire had.

He barely caught the whine of the bullet before a flash of pain seared his temple. The impact spun him around, and he crashed to his knees in the dust. Blood trickled down his face, warm and sticky, distorting his vision. He shook his head to clear it, his ears ringing.
You’re still alive. Get up.

The flesh wound burned like a swarm of hornets had stung him. Struggling to his feet, he swung his head around to see what was happening, wiping at the blood that dripped into his blurry eyes. Gray bodies littered the field, the remaining ranks battered but not destroyed. Justin’s company had managed to help repulse another wave of the attack, but more would come. He groped around for his revolver, found it next to his foot. His fingers curled around the grip, oddly clumsy.

“Here they come again.”

He jerked his gaze up at the muttered words.
Already?

Shrieking their spine-chilling yell, the southerners suddenly charged across the field straight toward them. One of his new men panicked and ran, only to take a bullet in his spine and sprawl face down in the dirt, twitching in his death throes.

“Steady, boys,” Justin yelled again. He swayed dizzily on his feet, gritted his teeth to stay upright. “Hold that line!” he warned his junior officers, who scrambled to keep the formation.

Oh, Jesus. They were so outnumbered. Had no reinforcements to help them. He couldn’t let the Rebs overrun their position. If he did, all was lost.

He cocked his weapon and shot a Rebel who was about to bayonet a wounded youngster’s chest, hitting him between the eyes. The back of his enemy’s head exploded like a melon.

Justin’s gaze swiveled to find his brother, mounted at the rear, grappling to hold onto a group of shying horses. As he wheeled to drag them away, Mitch jerked backward in the saddle and fell. He didn’t move.

He didn’t
move.

“Miiiiitch!”
The scream tore out of Justin as he sprinted to his brother. 

Mitch was struggling onto his side, sheets of smoke closing around him, hiding him from view. Justin wanted to howl in relief.
Still alive—

Something slammed into his ribs. A shockwave of pain exploded through him and hurtled him backward to the ground, knocking the breath out of him.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on his back, staring up at the swirling treetops. The battle continued to rage around him but it was strangely muted, sounding far away. A strangled cry escaped through his clenched teeth. When he pressed a hand to his side, it came away slippery, blood dripping through his fingers.
How bad is it?
He tried to roll over, couldn’t move.

Pain’s so bad…can’t breathe
. It blotted out his vision and hearing. Blackness closed in on him.
Mitch! Have to find him. He was hit. Have to help him.

Fire tore through his ribcage, sucking the air from his lungs.

Dear God, they got both of us.

A horrible weakness seeped through him, making his eyelids heavy as lead. He fought to turn over, to get up.

Mitch. Can’t see him. Have to get to him.

The edges of the world folded in, and a bolt of anguish ripped through him.

Didn’t reach him in time…

The spinning trees faded into nothingness.