Linda Castle (25 page)

“I will not cry,” she said fiercely from between clenched teeth.

“That’s my girl. Now, go on home and kiss my babies for me.” Chase brushed his lips against her knuckles. “Keep them and yourself safe, and don’t give up hope.”

“Dear God, Chase, there has to be something. You can’t just—” Her gaze ripped into him. “I don’t think I could bear it.”

“Unless I remember, there is no way I can defend myself against the charge. And there is one other possibility, Lin-ese, as much as it pains me to consider it.” He stared hard at her. “Maybe I did what they say. Maybe I murdered that man.”

“I don’t believe it, Chase.” Linese stared into his flinty gray eyes without batting an eyelash. Neither the old Chase Cordell nor the new one could commit cold-blooded murder. “No matter what anybody says, I
know
you are innocent. Whether you believe it or not.”

He shook his head in wonder at her unshakable faith in him. “You are a treasure, my darling. Never forget how very much I love you.” He leaned close to kiss her when a shot rang out and echoed through the silence outside. He flinched involuntarily when, a heartbeat later, the sound of far-off cannon fire blasted his ears.

Chase had been in enough battles to know there would be no peace once the Union started shelling the town.

“Chase, what is going on?”

“Linese, you must get back to Cordellane right away before the Union troops get in position. Soon Mainfield will be under siege.”

The sound hammered at Chase until he felt his insides roil and twist in pain. He put his hands over his ears, but still the sound of war bludgeoned his senses. It mixed with the ringing in his ears and intensified a thousandfold. He curled up on his cot and covered his head with the thin woolen blanket and lumpy pillow, but still he heard it.

Each shot, each blast, sent ribbons of fire swirling from his skull. His fevered blood throbbed through his veins. It hurt to take a breath. His eyes watered while the ringing in his ears grew louder. Waves of nausea swept over him and wrenched his gut. Bile rose in his throat while he fought for control of his shredding sanity.

Just when he was about to shriek for the Confederates to come and put a bullet into his head, to spare him this unbearable agony, it stopped.

He lifted his hands from his ears and listened. The barrage of cannon and shot outside continued without pause, but the maelstrom inside Chase’s head had simply ceased. The ringing in his ears was gone, the pain was gone. The discordant sound in his head had completely vanished.

And when it did, he remembered. He remembered….

Mainfield, Texas
May 30, 1862

C
hase stood near the press and read the latest report on the war. There never seemed to be a shortage of men to die, or an end to the conflict. More and more lately, he had been observing the battles with a kind of inner discontent.

He knew what it was—he just didn’t want to face it.

Chase had spent a big chunk of his life trying to live down or overcome his grandfather’s mental defect. Now that he had reached youthful manhood, he realized how stupid he had been. He regretted the years he had wasted worrying about what other people thought. He wanted to do something, something that counted. Something that had nothing to do with proving himself to the citizens of Mainfield, but something that really mattered.

He had made up his mind to join the Union army and do what he could to shorten the bloody conflict. Chase laid the paper aside, wrote a note for Hezikiah and locked the door to the
Gazette
behind him.

He strode to Ira Goten’s livery to get his horse while he made plans in his head. He was sure Hezikiah would look out for his grandfather, if he asked. There was really nothing to stop him from joining the fighting. There was nobody
to mourn him if he died—his grandfather would never even realize he was gone. Chase swung into the saddle and knew this was what he should have done months ago.

Chase blinked his eyes and the stark images of his past faded, but they were still lodged firmly in his memory. He touched his forehead and discovered it was covered with a sheen of clammy sweat. He did remember—all of it—every minute detail of his past.

The recollection he had just relived was so clear, the memory could have happened to him yesterday instead of two years ago. It was the world he had known, seen, touched and walked through, before war had forever altered his perceptions of the world and himself. He sat down on his cot and allowed his mind to go back to the day in May, 1862, the day Alfred Homstock died….

The big bay gelding picked his own path down the road. Chase looked up from his thoughts of joining the Northern army and found himself beside the old gristmill with the sun already setting behind him. He had been making plans to turn the operation of the
Gazette
over to Hezikiah and locate the nearest Union troops. The gelding stopped short and worked his ears back and forth.

“What is it, boy, a squirrel?” Chase rubbed the side of the gelding’s neck to soothe him. Then he heard the steady drone of voices. He slid out of the saddle and tied the reins to a scrub oak. Stealthily, ever aware of the danger of marauders and deserters, he crept forward through the thicket and peered through the dense foliage. Chase saw them and realized he knew each man by face and name.

It sent a shiver of shock through him when they pulled white flour sacks out of their saddlebags. Ragged holes had been cut for their eyes. They looked for all the world like a child’s interpretation of a haunt.

At first Chase intended to make himself known, but seeing them in disguise changed his mind. He kept hidden and listened to their conversation.

Mayor Kerney pulled a long, narrow blade from his boot and used the tip to scratch in the dirt at his feet. Chase re alized he was making a map. The other men leaned over and murmured their understanding. When they were finished, Kerney scraped his boot over the spot and they moved off, single file, and mounted their horses. Then they turned and headed east toward the Louisiana border, intent on a raid Chase had heard carefully described….

The burly Confederate soldier flung open the jail door. Chase snapped his head up, suddenly wrenched from his newly remembered past. He felt disoriented, unaccustomed to knowing he had no void left in his mind. He blinked and focused on the man and pulled himself back to the present. It was silent outside, but Chase knew from sad experience it was a temporary lull.

The soldier was carrying a small metal bowl in one hand and a cup in the other. The smell of food made his empty belly growl. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed while he sat in the cell and summoned his old memories, but he was very hungry.

“Come get it, if you want it,” the soldier drawled.

Chase rose to his feet and reached between the bars for the food. For the moment he was content to postpone his search into the past, at least until his hunger was sated. He had just managed to maneuver the cup and bowl through the narrow bars, when the door opened again. An imposing Confederate officer with long side-whiskers appeared. The soldier who had delivered Chase’s meal snapped to attention and saluted sharply.

“At ease.” The Confederate colonel waved his hand carelessly at the soldier. Braided gold decorated both shoulders and he wore an elaborate saber on his hip. He viewed Chase with cold, narrowed eyes.

“So this is Major Chase Cordell,” he sneered. “I expected more.”

Chase felt a wave of something more than politics between them. The man was hostile in a way that made it seem almost personal.

“You have the advantage of me, sir.” Chase eased back down onto his cot. He balanced the bowl on one knee and took a sip of the weak, hot coffee. The liquid slid a long way down before it hit the bottom of his belly.

“I am Colonel Montgomery Homstock.” The man dipped his head, never taking his eyes off Chase’s face.

Homstock.
The same name as the murdered man. A chill of dread snaked its way up Chase’s back.

“I won’t keep you from your supper, Major Cordell, but I did want to get a look at you.” He stepped near the bars and trained his wintry gaze on Chase’s face.

“I hope I’m not a disappointment.”

The colonel’s lips curled into a smile that never touched his eyes. “I hope you can maintain that bravado when your trial begins.”

“Aren’t those Union guns I heard outside of Main-field?” Chase goaded with a lift of his brows. “Are you so sure you have the time to bother with the formality of a trial? Why not just shoot me now and drop the pretense of justice?”

The smile slipped for a moment, but the colonel recovered quickly. “The Northern troops won’t be able to help you, Major. I am presently making arrangements with the local officials to hold your trial immediately. No matter how the war ends, I’ll see you hang. Sleep well, Major, if you can.”

With that said, Colonel Homstock turned on his boot heel and left. Chase listened to the steady barrage of cannon shot and knew he would not be able to rest, but he didn’t mind. He was determined to relive his past and he hoped, if he scrutinized each memory he would find the answers he
needed to defend himself. With a new feeling of purpose, he allowed his thoughts to return to 1862….

After Mayor Kerney and the other hooded men rode off, Chase let the gelding meander through the tall grass and graze at his leisure. He pondered the things he had heard and wondered how he had lived around the men and never discerned their activities. It was amazing to him. The merchants he saw had no political loyalties. They were raiding with one purpose in mind, and that purpose was to bring back loot—blood money—to line their own pockets.

He stopped and rested against the trunk of an ancient oak while he watched the summer moon rise high above the treetops. It seemed grotesque to think of men profiting from the conflict of ideals between the North and the South.

A branch snapped nearby. Chase pulled the Colt from his waistband and peered into the darkness. He had no intention of having his mount stolen by a wandering horseless deserter, whichever side he had been on.

“Identify yourself,” Chase demanded. The crunching footsteps abruptly halted. The man was definitely walking, and Chase tightened his grip on his horse’s reins.

“Chase? Is that you?” Ira Goten appeared from within a tangled mass of vines and branches. The moonlight gave his lean face a ghoulish appearance.

After a moment of surprise, Chase stuck his gun back in his pants. “Ira, what are you doing out here on foot?”

Ira’s eyes flicked away. His Adam’s apple bobbed while he swallowed hard. Whatever Ira was about to tell Chase, it was bound to be a lie.

“I, uh, got throwed.”

The hair on Chase’s neck stood on end. The night became charged with something—danger, deceit, or both, Chase wasn’t sure which. Everyone who lived within a hundred miles of Mainfield knew that Ira had been thrown only once in his life. At the time he had been too young to shave,
and drunk as a skunk on elderberry wine. He had not been thrown tonight, and Chase knew it.

“Do you need a ride into town?” Chase nodded at his big bay, indicating they could ride double, if need be. “Or do you want to go to Cordellane? I’ll loan you a horse.” He decided to play along with the deception.

“Naw, but I’d be obliged if you’d walk a ways with me, back toward town.” Ira shot a glance down the dark trail toward Cordellane.

No man walked if he could ride, even double, and Chase was almost sure Ira had been going in the opposite direction,
toward Cordellane,
not to Mainfield as he now indicated was his destination. Chase kept his suspicions to himself and allowed Ira to set the pace along the path.

“What are you doing out here, Chase?”

The question was asked mildly enough, but Chase sensed a strange tension in Ira. The electric zing of mistrust and suspicion arced between them.

“I was just riding,” Chase said.

“Oh.” Ira was silent for a moment but Chase could almost hear the cogs inside his head spinning, digesting the information, weighing the words for truth or falsehood. “Come out here often, do you, Chase?”

With each passing minute, Chase felt what the coon must feel when being trailed by a pack of hounds. Ira Goten was feeling Chase out, probing him. But why?

“I’ve always liked the old gristmill road. You can see all kinds of interesting things along the river, particularly in the moonlight.” Chase decided to toss a little bait out himself and see what he could snag with it.

Ira’s head snapped around. For a moment Chase thought he was going to say something, then his teeth flashed in the pale moonlight and he stopped walking.

“How about a drink, Chase?” Ira reached into his boot top and pulled out a bottle. Before he had his pants tucked back in, Chase saw the gleam of a wicked-looking blade concealed inside the boot. Ira stood up and uncorked the
whiskey and took a long pull, then he gave it to Chase. Even while he tipped the bottle to his lips, he watched Ira.

“Go ahead, have another,” Ira coaxed.

Chase made a big show of wiping his shirtsleeve across his mouth after he barely touched the liquor to his lips. “If I didn’t know better, Ira, I’d swear you were trying to get me drunk.”

Ira looked as if he had been walloped on the side of the head.

“What a thing to say, Chase. I was just being neighborly.” He took back the bottle and recorked it. Then he slipped it back inside his boot before he resumed walking toward Mainfield.

When they reached a small, sheltered clearing, Ira began to cast wary glances at the surrounding trees. It set Chase’s teeth on edge and he found himself squinting at the long shadows. He saw the man first, clinging to the shadows like a weasel, his body a darker shade of gray in the night. Chase froze in his tracks and his hand went instinctively to the butt of the Colt. Ira followed his line of vision. Chase sensed the very moment Ira saw the man concealed in the branches.

“Show yourself.” Ira bent and deftly slid the knife from his boot.

A form began to move within the trees. Chase drew the gun from his waistband. When the man emerged, his hands were held up and he had no weapon they could see.

“Take it easy, gentlemen.” The stranger’s words were tinged with a soft Southern slur. Chase thought he might be a deserter, until he got a better look at his clothes. They were of good cut and quality and the fellow wore them in a way that made Chase doubt he’d ever taken an order in his life.

“Who are you?” Chase pointed the gun at the level of the man’s belly.

“Since you are holding the gun, I guess I will have to oblige you by answering.” An assessing gaze flicked from Chase to Ira and back again. “I am Alfred Homstock. Do
you intend to shoot me now, or may I know your names first?”

“Cordell,” Chase said while he pondered the unlikely situation. It was too much of a coincidence, finding two men afoot in the woods at night. “What’s your business here?”

“I’ve come to meet someone.” The man looked Chase straight in the face and smiled warmly. He slowly put his arms down at his sides and relaxed.

“Meet somebody? Who?” Chase continued to hold the gun steady.

“You, Mr. Cordell,” the man said with complete conviction.

“Careful, Chase.” Ira’s warning whisper came from beside him.

Obviously the man was lying through his teeth. Chase was not meeting anybody, certainly not in the sheltered clearing.

“What do you mean you were supposed to meet me?” His grip on the Colt tightened.

“I am the man your contact told you about.” Homstock’s fingers went to his waist, where he pulled aside his coat and lifted the bottom edge of his brocade vest. He began to unfasten a money belt. “I have gold, lots of gold. It can be yours. Is this one of the men who work the route?” Homstock glanced at Ira with an eager gleam in his eyes.

Chase didn’t know anything about gold, or routes. Chase clamped his jaws shut while his mind went to his grandfather. Was it possible the craziness had affected his grandfather so much that he had become embroiled in some scheme involving gold?

Homstock held the money belt with his right hand and opened it up with the other. Pale moonlight glinted on gold coins.

“See, I have brought more than enough. Now will you show me the way to the Underground Railroad?”

It happened so fast, it was a blur of sound and sight. Ira’s arm shot out and a
zing
sliced the night air. There was a wooden
thunk
that echoed when Ira’s knife embedded itself in the trunk of a tree.

“Get down, Chase!” Ira called out.

An instant later a sharp crack and a blue spark sent a ribbon of fire across the top of Chase’s gun hand. He grated his teeth against the pain and tried to maintain his weakening grip on the Colt. The shot had come from a double-shot derringer concealed in the money belt Homstock still held in one hand. Ira pounced on the man and gold coins rained out of the belt when Homstock hit the ground. The two men struggled for control of the derringer.