Jessie's War (Civil War Steam) Read online

  A heavy leather boot blocked the way, and the door bounced back. Luke rubbed the dark stubble on his jaw. “I guess I deserved that.”

  “You guess?” Her voice rose and broke. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  She folded her arms. His cheeks were pale—too pale, she realized, and she fought a silent battle with herself. He’d lost all rights to her compassion. “I’m not cold,” she lied, bracing against the door. Blocking out both him and the painful memories he brought with him.

  “C’mon. For old time’s sake.”

  “If you cared about old times, you would’ve come home. Maybe written to say you were alive. You could’ve had the decency to tell me you weren’t coming back. All this time, I thought you were dead.” She rubbed at the pain building in her chest.

  He didn’t quite meet her eyes. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “You’re sorry?” Her voice was in danger of cracking under the strain. “You’re gone for eight years and all you have to say is ‘sorry’? You promised me you would come home. Instead, you let me believe you were dead. Your ‘sorry’ isn’t enough.”

  He reached out to touch her, but she jerked out of his reach.

  He stepped into the space she’d vacated, though he made no move to enter further or to close the door behind him. “Look, I came all the way from Chicago and I only got into Fort Clark this morning. Avalanche closed the tracks in between Silver City and Gold Hill. I hired this horse, and she’s exhausted. Just let me water and rest her. I need you, Jessie.” He shivered and folded his arms against his chest. His silver eyes bored into her, and she fought the urge to shrink back from him, in order to protect her heart.

  “Please. My horse won’t make it back to town.”

  Please, he’d said, as if he believed she’d let a horse die just because of her anger. Had he forgotten so much about her in his time away? One look in her barn, and he’d know she’d never let that happen. Her mother’s people revered such creatures, and he should damn well know it.

  Despite the dark, Jessie could see how the old nag’s ribs jutted out from her flesh. Luke was right. This horse wouldn’t make it back into town in this weather.

  And Luke wouldn’t make it into town without a horse.

  She squared her shoulders. “Fine. Just for the night. You leave in the morning. Without that horse. You leave the horse with me. She’ll be safe in my barn with the others.”

  The shadow of a smile ghosted his lips. “And me, Jess?”

  “What about you?”

  “You’re not gonna make me bed down in the barn, are you?”

  “Would serve you right if I did.”

  After a long silence, Luke nodded. “You’re right, it would. But you wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”

  The night was as cold as any she could recall. Even she was chilled, despite the warmth of the room behind her. How cold he must be, having ridden all day in this blizzard. She remembered the nights when, as a boy, he would show up on her porch, and how her parents would take him in. He had never failed to make her father and Gideon laugh, when the five of them would gather around the sitting room and her father or Luke would tell stories to amuse them. Those were the days when her family had been whole.

  She’d treasured those memories because, for a long time now, she thought she was the only one left.

  Her parents would have taken him in. Her brother would never turn him away. They would forgive him the long absence and his silence. They would welcome him home.

  But he hadn’t broken their hearts.

  She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for Gid and my parents. Not that they mattered to you any more than I did.”

  He rubbed the scar creasing his eyebrow and closed his eyes as if it hurt. “I cared for them more than you’ll ever know.”

  Careless hands waved away his words. “Doesn’t matter, since they’re all gone now.”

  “Jess—”

  “Go take care of your horse.”

  “I cared about you, too,” he said gruffly.

  “Take care of your horse!” She shut the door.

  Cared. Eight years had passed since he’d left, a long time for a man and a woman to be apart. Somewhere, he probably had a wife and kids, some nice little white woman who could cook and sew, someone who didn’t stir up trouble simply by walking in a room. Somewhere, he probably had a home and a family to go back to.

  Resting her head against the worn, pine door, she fought back tears.

  She was tempted to draw the bolt, but she wouldn’t. If only out of deference to her mother and Gideon, she’d let him back in. Jessie had enough of her mother in her to not turn away a guest. Her ancestors had fought hard to survive in this harsh, high desert landscape. They wouldn’t forgive the breach of hospitality.

  Didn’t mean she had to like it. Didn’t mean she would forgive him for forgetting her the way he had.

  She banged the kettle on the stove and went into the washroom to draw a bath. The water would be lukewarm at best, if she didn’t light the boilers, and she had no intention of doing that. Not for him.

  Tomorrow she would send him on his way. That should be enough for her ancestors to smile on her.

  It was about time they did.

  Luke closed the door behind him and locked it. He whispered a greeting to Muha, who’d been an overgrown pup when he and Gideon left. Then he checked the windows, and pushed aside the lace curtains to stare into the dark.

  It had been a long time since she’d allowed a man in her house.

  A long, long time.

  It felt odd to not be alone.

  Luke walked into the kitchen, the sound of his footfalls uneven as he came to stand behind her and touched the beaded, bone choker around her throat. His fingers grazed the sensitive skin of her neck.

  Her heart skipped like a flat stone across still water. She turned her head to glare at him over her shoulder.

  He cleared his throat. “You look different.”

  “You mean I don’t look like some pretty little white girl.”

  He picked up one of her braids, her black hair contrasting with his pale hand. “No. I mean different from how I remember.”

  Jessie stepped away from him, trying to pretend his simple gesture didn’t remind her of a time when her heart had been whole. Her braid fell from his fingers. “Always been different. I just stopped acting like something I wasn’t.”

  “I meant no insult.”

  With a frown, she shoved a steaming cup of chicory into his hands. “Here. Drink this.” She pushed past him into the sitting room.

  “Thank you.” He paused. “I noticed you’re still taking in strays. Barn’s full of them.”

  She waved away his comment. “Winter’s been hard this year. There’s nothing for the wild horses to eat, and they’re sick and starving. When they’re not being poisoned along with the antelope and the sheep, that is.” She walked into the sitting room. “I guess I always did have a soft spot for strays.”

  Their eyes met from across the room. Was that shame she saw in his eyes? A second later, his expression shifted, and he joined her in the front room. His foot dragged.

  An old injury? A new one?

  She didn’t want to think about it, so she sat down on her worn sofa. “Your bath’s waiting for you.”

  He leaned against the wall, and shoved his hands into his pockets. Something about the stiffness of his shoulders looked uncomfortable as he shifted his weight, but his laugh was easy. “I take it that’s a hint?”

  Her cheeks heated and she sniffed. “I wouldn’t try the patience of my very generous benefactor, if I were you. I might also mention a bath could make your presence a little more tolerable. You’re lucky I didn’t sic Muha on you.”

  Luke looked at the wolf, who thumped her graying tail in eager canine devotion. “You wouldn’t bite me, would you, old girl?” Scratching her head, he caught Je
ssie’s eye. “See, she still loves me.”

  “Well, that’s one of us.”

  “Right.” He dug into the pocket of his vest, removed a small, folded envelope, and extended it to her. “I brought you something.”

  The paper trembled, and it took Jessie a moment to realize his hands shook.

  She folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t want anything from you, except your promise that tomorrow you’ll leave and you won’t come back.”

  “Can’t promise you that, but I can give you this.” He shoved the envelope at her.

  “Don’t overstay your welcome, Bradshaw.”

  “I always do.”

  A nervous laugh escaped before she could stop it, and she took the letter from Luke’s outstretched hand. It was well worn and wrinkled, the edges charred, as if it had been rescued from a fire.

  She ran her hands over the paper, and she sensed smoke and the heat of flames.

  With shaking hands, she opened the envelope. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to find, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t a photograph and a flood of memories.

  Two young men. Union soldiers. Luke, clean-shaven and an older version of the boy she remembered, smiled broadly at the camera, his free arm around the shoulders of the young man standing next to him.

  Gideon. His black hair and eyes, skin and high cheekbones showed the native blood he and Jessie shared. His mouth was set in a somber line, but she recognized the mirth in his eyes. Luke had never failed to amuse her brother.

  On the bottom of the photograph, written in Gideon’s strong, precise hand, was, Me and Luke. October 28, 1867.

  The day he died.

  She put the photograph down beside her and turned to the second piece of paper, and her throat tightened as she began to read.

  Jessie,

  We leave for South Carolina today. Luke and I are assigned to different airships, but we’re both expected to be there by this afternoon. We don’t expect much resistance. There are rumors the Rebs have developed a weapon against our airships, but I’ve been working on something with Pop’s blue silver alloy. If it works, the Rebs will never be able to take us out of the sky. I only wish Luke were on my ship.

  Don’t worry about us. Any day now, and we’ll be back where we belong. Luke sends his love. I’ll take care of him for you—don’t you worry. You take care of yourself and Pop.

  --Gideon

  The letter they’d received from Gideon’s commanding officer had assured her father that her brother had died quickly when his ship had plummeted to the earth and burst into flames. She had never believed those words, but she had pretended to, for her father’s sake.

  She traced Gideon’s words with the tip of her finger, trying to feel some remnant of her brother’s presence in the strong lines of his penmanship. New pain built in her chest when she realized her efforts were futile—his energy wasn’t there. His letter contained his words, but no trace of him.

  “I always meant to come back.” Luke’s voice sounded rough. “I walked all the way back to the crash site, looking for him or something of his. I was given this. I’ve carried it ever since. I always meant to give it to you.”

  She set the photograph in her lap. She memorized this last image of her brother, dressed as a solider with his best friend by his side.

  Luke put his hand on her shoulder.

  She flinched. “Don’t. You should have sent this when you found it.”

  He dropped his hand. “I wanted to give you the letter in person.”

  “Go away.” The words came out strangled.

  “Jessie—”

  “I wish you had been the one to die that day.”

  This one small memento of her brother ripped her open and tore out her heart all over again. The pain was as raw as the day she’d learned of his death.

  “You have no idea how many times I’ve wished the exact same thing.”

  She closed her eyes. “Go away.”

  Jessie expected a protest, but when she looked up minutes later, he was gone.

  Her legs shook on the way to her bedroom. A faint glow emanated from below the door of her brother’s old room.

  Luke Bradshaw was in her house, in her brother’s bed, in the room right next to hers, separated from her not by the veil separating Earth and Heaven, but by a few inches of wood and miles of hurt. Jessie let herself into her own room and forced herself to keep her hands quiet, to prevent her from touching the wall behind her and feeling Luke’s presence in her house.

  Wood creaked and groaned as she knelt beside the bed and pressed her hands against the floorboards. With a quiet hiss, the planks lifted to expose her secret compartment. These were the treasures of her past: old journals, a well-worn doll with mechanized eyes, and a large, metal box.

  She pulled the box into her lap and punched in a series of buttons, and the gears whirred as the lock unlatched. The lid lifted, opening the door on the pain she so carefully locked away so she could continue to live a life even she wasn’t sure was worth much of anything.

  Inside were old newspaper clippings and every one of Luke and Gideon’s letters to her. They’d written faithfully for five years, and she’d kept every letter. On October 28, 1867, the letters stopped.

  She read Gideon’s letter one last time before filing it behind the others, and went to put the picture with the newspapers. But she couldn’t help but look at the old photographs and remember the horror of when Gideon died and what was left of her family with him.

  What would eventually be called the Battle of Bear Creek was supposed to be the Union’s final push to subdue the rebellious Confederacy. A massive airship attack, supported by tens of thousands of ground troops, Bear Creek should have been the battle to bring peace and restore the broken United States.

  It was a bloodbath.

  Unbeknownst to the Union, the Confederacy possessed a weapon capable of shelling from miles away, from what ought to have been out of range. The Mathew Brady photographs in the papers showed the horror. Shells of burned airships, blackened fields, the stacked bodies of men who had died in Bear Creek, the husk of the Capitol after Washington had fallen to Confederate artillery.

  The only weapon her father ever created in his long years as an inventor had broken the back of the Union. It hadn’t mattered that his plans had been stolen by Confederate agents, or that he’d never intended for the device to fall into Confederate hands. It only mattered that he’d created the technology that killed thousands, including his son.

  When Luke stopped writing after Gideon’s death, they had believed his body lay somewhere on that same field of battle. But she’d been unable to voice her grief, unable to dance either of their spirits to the other side. Her father’s anguish had been so overwhelming, so consuming, she had swallowed hers. One of them needed to go to market or go into town for the post.

  Because her father had been unable to do so, she’d faced the wrath of the town alone. What they’d done in their anger was yet another thing she had forced herself to swallow, and eventually, their rage settled into quiet disdain.

  Well. She had survived it.

  Now Luke’s ghost had returned to life and lay on the other side of the wall, taunting her with his presence. Mocking her with the life she’d thought he’d lost.

  She rubbed her palm against her chest to alleviate the ache, and felt the ring he’d once given her against her palm. Pulling the silver chain from beneath her clothing, her fingers curled around the cheap piece of silver. Luke gave her this ring the night before he’d left, when he’d asked her to wait for him. She had waited for years—and continued to wait long after she had given him up for dead.

  She would have waited forever.

  The ring went into the box. As she closed the lid, she felt the imprint of that silver ring against her skin still, her body aching for the comfortable familiarity of it.

  Tears gathered in her eyes, and Jessie, for the first time in a long time, allowed them to fall.

  She mis
sed her mother and her brother. She missed her father, who’d died that day as surely as Gideon had, though he’d continued to wake each morning for another two years.

  “Oh, Gideon.” She clutched the box to her chest.

  Luke, her heart whispered.

  No, she told herself sternly. Never again.

  She closed her eyes, banishing the image of him from her mind. Exhausted, she rested her cheek against the cold metal and wept.

  Chapter Two

  The sound of soft-soled shoes against the wooden floor told Luke that Jessie was finally awake.

  He’d heard her through the thin walls the night before. Long after he’d extinguished the lantern beside the bed, he’d listened to the sounds of her moving about in her room and quietly weeping.

  When he turned in her direction, he found her standing framed in the doorway of the kitchen, dressed in a simple buckskin dress and trousers. Beaded earrings of hollowed, polished bone brushed against her shoulders, an identical choker around her throat. The bone pipe choker and earrings stood out, pale against her golden skin. Her waist-length black hair was braided into two plaits, through which she had woven a leather cord. The pale brown fabric bound the ends of her hair, and matched the beaded dress.

  She was even prettier than he remembered. His chest tightened at the sight of her.

  Then their gazes collided. Her face was ashen, and judging by her swollen, red-rimmed eyes, she’d been crying again. He knew he had hurt her when he’d let her go. It wasn’t his fault she hadn’t understood that, as long as there was war, he couldn’t come home.

  Wasn’t hers, either, his conscience chided. It had been silent for so long he’d almost forgotten he’d had one. Damn thing was both unfamiliar and unwelcome.

  He turned back to the stove and continued with his task.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making you breakfast. I figure it’s the least I can do, since you’re letting me stay.”

  He’d intentionally kept his tone light, because he needed to set her at ease, and her brother’s words hadn’t done it. He couldn’t say what he needed to regain her trust. All he could do was cook her a meal and hopefully remind her of a time when his presence hadn’t caused her pain.