A Heart Divided Read online

  A Heart Divided

  By J.M. Snyder

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  This book is available in print.

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2009 J.M. Snyder

  ISBN 978-1-61152-155-9

  Cover Credits: Tad Denson, Matt Trommer

  Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  Cover Design: J.M. Snyder

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  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.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  NOTE: This book was previously published by Amber Allure Press.

  * * * *

  A Heart Divided

  By J.M. Snyder

  Chapter 1

  March, 1865

  The candle cast an unsteady light through the tent, pushing shadows back into dark corners and flickering across the makeshift table where Lieutenant Anderson Blanks sat, hunched over as he wrote another letter home. This one began Dearest Mary, and he couldn’t think of much more to say that hadn’t already been said before.

  I am alive, he mused, dipping the quill into the pot of ink nearby, but she would know that by the fact he wrote to her, wouldn’t she? And who could say that would still be true whenever she received the letter? It took days for the courier to run the mail into town, and with enemy activity so close by, those days might turn into weeks and he very likely would be dead by then. How many men had he already lost under his command? He couldn’t remember.

  It is evening, he wrote. He could picture his younger sister sitting on the verandah of their Southern home as she read the letter, her long hair spun into soft curls that cascaded down her shoulders and back. She’d be sipping tea in the afternoon sun, his letter in one gloved hand, a delicate fan in the other stirring up a faint breeze around her. The heady scent of magnolias would permeate the air. Mississippi was hot in April, and he didn’t think she would receive the letter before then.

  I am well as I write this, but who knows what tomorrow will bring? Or next week, or next month, even? Your brother Andy may yet be counted among the dead, but I hope not. I pray for an end to this war, as I have fervently prayed every night since Sumter fell, but as of yet my prayers have not been answered. I am beginning to doubt they ever will be. The good Lord has turned His back on our battle, and Mr. Lincoln wishes to kill all of our boys, I fear. That will be the only end to this war.

  Beyond the thick canvas tent Andy could hear cicadas, their high pitched screech like violins in the night. With the sleeve of his shirt he wiped the sweat from his brow. I hate Virginia, he thought as he fanned himself with a blank scrap of parchment. At least back home the evenings ended cool and refreshing like peaches kept on ice, but here the heat of the day seemed to linger after the sun set, and Andy longed to be home.

  In the quiet of his tent he could close his eyes and recall the memory of soft breezes blowing in off the small river that wound through his father’s farmland. Crystal clear water bubbling over rocks and churning up white-capped spray after a heavy summer storm. How cold it felt on bare feet, sending shivers up Andy’s spine whenever he dipped his toes into the tumult. Thick grass on the bank like velvet when he lay back upon it to stare up through the branches of the old white oak, in whose shade he’d hidden many a hot summer day…

  Thinking of the river brought back memories of a simpler time, before this present conflict. When all he’d had to worry about were the horses in the barn, or the crops in the fields. No men under his command, no bullets whizzing by, no turmoil in his life.

  Which brought to mind Samuel Talley, the scrappy young man his father had hired to tend the horses. Sam, who’d become much more than a friend to Andy in the five years he’d worked on the farm. His green eyes had matched the grass on the riverbank, a fact Andy had noticed when he pressed Sam back against the ground to claim their first kiss. The thick crop of reddish-blond hair that had grown bushy and unkempt while he worked at their farm always reminded Andy of the old fairytale where they spun straw into gold.

  The thought of Sam made him ache, as it did whenever memories of the young man resurfaced. Andy wondered where he was now.

  West somewhere. He bent over his letter again, but now that he’d thought of Sam, he couldn’t get the boy out of his head. His wasn’t the type of personality satisfied with being relegated to the past. Before the war had begun, Andy had known the pleasure of Sam’s touch, the softness of his lips. He still recalled the feel of firm hands on his body, the tongue licking hidden skin, the weight of Sam above him and in him when they’d made love.

  It all ended the day Andy’s father had caught the two of them in the hay. They’d been in various stages of undress—Sam’s hands thrust beneath Andy’s shirt, Andy’s fingers working loose the ties at the front of Sam’s breeches. Sam had just tweaked Andy’s nipple, sending a wave of pleasure shooting through him; he leaned his head back and gasped in delight. When he sat up again, his gaze drifted past his lover to his father, glowering in the shadows of the barn.

  That was all the excuse Daddy Blanks had needed to fire the boy, despite Andy’s protests. Chased from the farm, what little money Andy had convinced him to take tucked into his pocket, Sam bought a railroad ticket out west. Though Andy had been forbidden to see him again, he couldn’t bear to let Sam leave alone; they’d stood pressed together behind the depot, holding each other close, as they waited for the train that would take him away. “I’ll send for you,” Sam had promised between kisses. “As soon as I scrape a few dollars together, and get us a place to stay. I’ll not forget you.”

  “Nor I you,” Andy had sworn.

  Three years later, here in his tent, alone, on the edge of a battlefield somewhere in the backwoods of Virginia, Andy could still taste those tender lips on his. Three long, lonely years…did Sam still wait for him? Had a letter arrived at his father’s home, a train ticket inside, asking if he were interested in traveling west? Would his sister tell him if it had? Or would his father recognize Sam’s name and toss the missive into the hearth unopened? Would Andy ever know if Sam still thought of him?

  “I’ll send for you,” he’d said. Then the war had begun, and Andy hadn’t heard from him again. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing now, but God, please keep him safe. And if it’s not too much to ask, please keep me safe as well, so I can be ready when he sends for me. But what use were prayers, when he’d been praying for the war to end and this was now the fourth year of conflict?

  Dipping the quill into the ink again, he wondered if he should ask Mary for news of Sam, but her letters always ended the same way. Nothing from the west. She left it ambiguous because their father was apt to find the letter before she mailed it, and if he knew Andy still held out hope that he and Sam would be together…well, Andy didn’t want to think about that. Better to let his father believe he had saved his son from sin, and hold out the hope that when this war ended, Andy would return to the farm.

  It wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t re-enlist, and if there were no word from Sam by then, he would sell his part of the homestead back to his father and head west. To make his fortune, he’d say, but Mary knew better.

  His heart knew better. He’d find his boy.

  He pressed the tip of the quill to the paper and sighed as he continued his letter.

  In my mind I still hear the cannons that boom in the daylight, faint and faraway but constant reminders that there is a war being fought, and I’ve forgotten what it was we hoped to get from it. The dead are all we have left. I only hope they forgive us when this is finished. I am weary of the sounds of rifles and the stench of gunpowder! I know the fields back home are green now, the cotton coming in, the trees full of fruit. I remember…

  Andy paused, frowning. He remembered Sam above him in the field of cotton, the two of them shirtless and out of breath because they had raced from the stables hand in hand to collapse in a tumble to the ground. He remembered strong arms and sweet kisses, the momentary discomfort as Sam entered him, and the way Sam always whispered he loved him when they were both spent.

  He wasn’t going to write that in the letter.

  With the quill against the paper, the ink began to bleed through the parchment, a thick black stain that ran into the other words. “Shit,” Andy muttered, dusting powder along the ink to dry it out. Now he’d have to begin again, and he didn’t have much ink left, and only one last sheet of paper.

  Carefully he brushed the powder off the table and blew on the paper to dry the ink. Maybe he could still salvage it… I hate this, everything about this. I’m stuck here in the woods of Virginia, in a damn rebel camp fighti
ng a war that’s already lost, when I should be on the prairie somewhere, riding to find my boy. Sam would be in his early twenties by now, three years older than he was in Andy’s mind. He had sent one letter, just one—postmarked St. Louis and dated almost a year and a half after he’d left the Blanks plantation. When it arrived addressed to him, Andy had climbed into the loft of the stable and lay on his stomach in the scented hay while he read the cramped words. I still love you, the letter started, and it ended with, Soon, Andy. I promise you, soon. That was the only thing that kept Andy going some days, that faded, worn letter he saved hidden among his personals.

  A soft rap interrupted his thoughts. Shaking his sister’s letter to dry the ink, he called out, “Yes?”

  It was too late for any news from the front—battles were difficult to fight in these woods during the day, and impossible by night. And his aide had already delivered his supper of cold soup and hard biscuits, which sat on the ground by his feet mostly uneaten. He couldn’t imagine who wanted to speak with him now.

  The tent flaps parted and someone ducked inside. Andy recognized the blonde, bowl-shaped haircut but waited until the candlelight illuminated his visitor’s face before he smiled. “Wiley,” he said, setting his letter down as he turned toward the lieutenant. “It’s late.”

  Lieutenant Wiley Bucknell nodded, his blue eyes as dark as the ink staining Andy’s letter. “I know, but the pickets are spooked.”

  “Spooked?”

  Aren’t we all? Andy wanted to say, but a glance at Wiley’s pursed lips kept the thought in check. “This isn’t about the mosquitoes again, is it?”

  When their unit first marched into Virginia, the men were terrified of mosquitoes, having heard horrible tales of the diseases the bugs carried, and it took all Andy had to keep them from shooting at the damn insects with their scant ammunition. With a sigh, he smoothed out the edges of his sister’s letter. “I haven’t the time for such trivialities—”

  “I know,” Wiley said again. “But you know how the men are. They’re miles from home and it’s been days since the mail ran. They’re dispirited and hot and afraid that they aren’t going to make it through the night alive. They can hear the Yanks in the woods, they say, and I know it’s just talk but it’s scaring the shit out of them. They say they hear screams of the dying, a soldier killed and gone to ghost, shooting for them. They say—”

  “I say they’re grown men,” Andy replied, a little upset. Of the three lieutenants stationed in their camp, why was it Wiley always passed these matters onto him? “Take it to McNair,” he told his friend. “It’s not my job to quell the gossip.”

  But Wiley grinned at that. “McNair said take it to you.”

  Andy sighed. Damn you for doing this to me, Wiley.

  Wiley continued. “He said you’re good with the men. Just calm them down for the night and we’ll send out a search party in the morning.”

  “For ghosts?” Andy asked, frowning.

  Wiley laughed. “Just to prove there’s nothing out there. You know the routine, poke the bodies, make sure they’re dead. McNair likes this location, and he’s got orders from General Lee himself to stay here as long as we can hold it. But if the men are scared…” He let the sentence trail off, the thought left unsaid.

  Andy knew what he meant. If the men are scared, they’re apt to run, he thought as Wiley watched him, waiting. Like rats deserting a sinking ship. Damn. He sighed again. “I’ll go have a word with them.”

  “I’ll let McNair know,” Wiley replied as he left the tent.

  Andy folded his sister’s letter and left it on the table. He’d finish it when he came back from the camp’s perimeter. Just calm them down. He twisted his mouth into a wry grin. As if it were that easy.

  Chapter 2

  Removing a wooden lantern from its iron holder near his cot, Andy stuck what was left of his candle in the lantern. They were running short on supplies as it was, the whole camp on rations, the soldiers in shoes bound with twine and clothes held together with dirt and grime. That’s why I have just one piece of paper left. Grant will starve our men and we’ll come begging to surrender, anything for a meal that consists of something more than tepid soup and stony bread. Here you go, General, the heart of the South for another sheet of parchment, what do you say? Just to pen a note back home.

  He rolled the few matches he had left into a strip of cloth and shoved them beneath the thin cot where he slept. Though he trusted his men, times were hard, and he didn’t want to leave the lucifers out where someone might be tempted to filch them. Mary’s letter went beneath the cot, as well, with the remaining sheet of paper. The ink pot he capped and shoved into his haversack at the end of the bed, and with one foot he eased the plate of food under the table. He didn’t think he’d eat it, but he didn’t want it to go to waste, not when so many other regiments were starving. Maybe I’ll pack it away in the morning and keep it just in case.

  Outside his tent the night was sultry and warm, the humidity this early in the year like a wet rag flung against him as he stepped out into the camp. Around him a few fires flickered in low pits, illuminating ragged soldiers hunched over the flames not so much for warmth but for light. A couple of the men glanced at Andy as he passed—they eyed the lantern he carried, envious, before turning back to their Bibles or dice or whatever else it was they used to make the war bearable.

  Andy moved through the camp easily, a ghost among his own men, his gray shirt and pants bleached white in the glow from his lantern. When he reached the edge of the camp, he considered returning to his tent for his coat and rifle. His rank was spelled out on the coat in patches, and the rifle would give him some semblance of protection against the night. But he was only going to talk with the men on picket duty. They knew who he was by sight, and what use was a rifle against imagined voices and disembodied ghosts?

  With quiet steps, he moved through the underbrush that ringed their encampment. The pickets were lonely men, bored with their duty, nothing else—young men jumping at shadows. Andy hadn’t the patience for that, not tonight. His mind wanted to retreat to the past, and nothing sounded better than a solitary evening spent beneath the thin blankets on his cot, reminiscing about a boy he once knew. Three years was too long. Too damn long.

  As he neared the outskirts of their encampment, he halted and called out, “It’s me.” He heard the pickets shift uneasily in the darkness ahead of him. “Lieutenant Blanks.”

  “Show yourself,” came the stiff reply.

  Andy raised the lantern to reveal his face. For a few blinding moments he blinked in the bright light, not surprised to see it reflect off the dull metal of a bayonet pointed at his chest. Then he heard a sigh of relief and the bayonet disappeared.

  “Sir,” the picket said, snapping to salute.

  Andy held out the lantern to see who was on duty. Williams and Lovelace. He knew them by sight but couldn’t recall their given names. They were just two more men in a company of hundreds. Williams stood tall and lanky, his hair shaved to a thin buzz cut to fight off a particularly bad infestation of lice that plagued the enlisted men. He had small, narrow eyes that glistened darkly in the glow of Andy’s lantern, and though he held his gun at his side, his gaunt cheeks and distrustful squint still made him look dangerous.

  Beside him stood Lovelace, a short, stocky man, with thick arms and a bulging stare that always unnerved Andy. The way his gaze darted nervously from Andy to the woods and back again belied his fear of whatever might be out among the trees. His salute was sloppy, and he shifted from foot to foot as if he had a touch of dysentery and wanted to slip away to relieve himself in the sink.

  Both men were younger than Andy, who at twenty-five felt ancient. Three years in battle did that to a man. He felt old before his time, and in the haunted eyes of these two soldiers, he didn’t see men staring back at him but mere boys, pawns in a game that threatened to claim their souls. They should be at home, with their families, with sweethearts who pined for their return. Not here in the dark and the dirt. Not here.

  Williams’ Southern accent betrayed his Kentucky roots. “Just being cautious, sir.”

  “Understood.” Andy lowered the lamp and sighed. “Lieutenant Bucknell says there’s talk of a ghost.”