An Outlaw in Wonderland (5 page)

“I have no idea about that,” Ethan said. “I’m a doctor. He needed help.”

“You’re General Grant’s spy. I suppose old U.S. told you to sneak behind the lines
and keep sniffing until you find enough information to make the South surrender unconditionally,
just the way he likes it.”

Union newspapers had remarked that General Grant’s initials—U.S.—were short for Unconditional
Surrender, after the Battle of Fort Donelson when he’d told the fort’s commanding
officer that “no terms except unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted.”
The nickname was so clever, even Abraham Lincoln had endorsed it.

Ethan didn’t answer the man. Annabeth no longer thought the stranger a deserter. She
almost wished he were.

“If your sniper pal had killed both Massa Jeff and Uncle Rob, Grant would have his
wish. The Confederacy wouldn’t survive without Davis and Lee.”

Annabeth’s fingers tightened around the gunstock as she remembered the words on the
paper she’d stuffed into the dead man’s boot.

Paris Ridge, Tuesday next. Midnight. Massa Jeff and Uncle Rob.

Uncle Rob was one of General Lee’s nicknames. Everyone loved him. Massa Jeff referred
to Jefferson Davis. Although the moniker had originally been spoken with affection,
of late folks had begun to say it with a hint of scorn. Nevertheless, Moze certainly
knew how to bait a trap.

“Where’s Mikey?” Ethan demanded.

“Where do you think? There’s one punishment for spies.”

Ethan staggered, and for an instant Annabeth thought he might faint. His captor must
have, too. He reached for Ethan’s arm, lifting the gun away from Ethan’s chest for
just an instant.

Ethan pushed the barrel downward; his elbow jabbed up. The man’s nose crunched, though
the sound was forgotten in the roar of the rifle as a bullet plowed into the ground.

Ethan yanked the weapon from the fellow’s hand, whirling on one leg, the other sweeping
forward and knocking the stranger’s feet out from under him. He landed on the ground
with an “oof” and lay still.

Flustered, frightened, Annabeth fumbled with her own rifle. She was still trying to
disentangle it from her skirt when Ethan landed next to her. He reached for the reins,
then froze.

“Go!” she shouted.

“Too late.”

Annabeth lifted her eyes. They were surrounded.

E
than didn’t care for the look of the men who emerged from the trees. He specifically
didn’t care for the way they stared at Annabeth.

He’d thought they were safe. The armies had moved off, and if the intelligence he’d
passed to Mikey proved useful, the war would soon be over.

He’d waited several days past the Tuesday next indicated in the note with no news.
He couldn’t wait any longer. As they’d been so close to the cabin, what could it hurt
to stop in and ask what had happened?

Ethan should have known better. Questions such as that always turned out badly.

“Let the lady return to Richmond,” he said as their weapons were confiscated and the
bloody man on the porch was helped to his feet. “She’s a nurse. They need her there.”

“We need her here.” The nearest fellow leered, revealing all four of his teeth.

“They’re awaiting her at Chimborazo.” The desperation in his voice only made them
laugh. “She
must
be returned there.”

The laughter died. “You aren’t in charge here, spy.”

“I’m not—”

“Shut up.” The leader by virtue of his uniform epaulettes, dirty and torn, but still
there, cast Ethan a glare. “We know who you are. We was headed to Chimborazo next.”

“She isn’t—”

“You’re a spy; she’s with you; she comes with us.”

“I confess,” he blurted. “Just let her go.”

“No.” The man reached over and took the reins of their horse.

The absence of Mikey was worrisome on several counts. His brother had yet to be surprised
by man or beast. The fact that the Rebs knew about both him and the sniper, as well
as the rendezvous and this cabin all led to one conclusion: Mikey had been captured
or worse. As the common punishment for traitors was immediate death—hanging for spies,
shooting for snipers—Ethan had a very bad feeling. Although . . .

They’d labeled
him
a spy, and he was still breathing.

The return trip to Richmond continued in silence. Annabeth wouldn’t look at him; he
didn’t blame her. She was going . . . somewhere, and it would not be good because
she’d been foolish enough to trust him. He’d come to Chimborazo to listen, to learn,
to lie—hell, to spy. He’d do it again. The only thing he’d change was her.

He would never allow her near him. No smiles, no touches, no scent of lavender and
mint, no working together, no laughter and light. Definitely not one single kiss.

“Oh, no,” Annabeth whispered as if she’d heard his thoughts, and her voice shook.

She’d gone as pale as the clouds they’d so recently admired. Her deep blue eyes glittered.
Her hands wrung. Her freckles flared. Ethan followed her gaze and cursed.

Richmond’s Castle Thunder was one of the most notorious prisons of the Confederacy.
It was comprised of three buildings that had once been warehouses and a tobacco factory.
The majority of the captives were spies, political prisoners, and those accused of
treason.

“Shove him in there.” The leader pointed to Palmer’s Factory. Two men dragged Ethan
from the buggy.

“Palmer’s is for Union deserters,” Ethan said. He might be a lot of things, but he
wasn’t that.

“Was,” the man who towed Ethan’s right arm said. “Now it’s for prisoners of war, too.”

“And spies,” the man on his left said. “Though you’re the only one of those we got.”

“The only one?”

The man grinned.
He
had all his teeth. Sadly, they were black as night. “Kilt all the rest.”

The door opened, and they pushed him through. Ethan spun, but the door clanged shut
before he could snatch one last, precious glance of Annabeth.

•   •   •

Ethan was a spy, just as Moze had suspected. The trap he had set, that she had, was
sprung, and not only had Ethan been caught, but Annabeth had as well.

The gazes of her captors made her skin itch as if she’d rolled in filth. She had to
clench her hands to keep from scratching at her hair, through which a hundred insects
seemed to crawl.

Her gaze went to the now-closed door. She wanted Ethan back no matter who he was,
no matter what he’d done. Better than being here, with them.

Alone.

If she’d learned one thing from living with five brothers, it was to bluff and bluff
big. Fear only brought out the worst in both man and beast. These appeared a bit of
both.

“I am a nurse at Chimborazo,” she announced. “My brothers have all died for the cause.
I am as much of a patriot as y’all.”

No one answered. Annabeth was tempted to say that she’d been the one who set the trap.
But something kept her silent.

The same men who’d dragged Ethan into the building led her toward Whitlock’s Warehouse.

The Confederacy had begun to incarcerate women and negroes in this portion of Castle
Thunder. How long would Annabeth be here before Moze discovered her missing? Would
he think to search for her in prison? Would she ever get out?

She had no one to blame but herself. She’d planted the information to prove Moze wrong.
Now that
she’d
been proven wrong instead, she wasn’t sure what to think, how to feel, what to do.

Should she hate Ethan? His spying had not only resulted in the disappearance of her
little brother, but could easily have been the cause of the deaths of one or more
of the others. She had no idea how long he’d been at his job or where he’d plied his
trade before Chimborazo. He had certainly caused the deaths of innumerable Confederate
soldiers. So why, instead of a desire to see him suffer, did she have to fight a sudden
panic that she might never see him alive again?

I’d do anything to make this war stop.

When he’d said those words, she had wholeheartedly agreed. Of course he’d said them
as a Confederate doctor.

Or had he? Ethan
wasn’t
a Confederate doctor.

She thought of hearing him speak in his sleep without the accent. Was he even Irish?
Was his name Walsh? Or Ethan for that matter? What else had he lied about?

I love ye, lass.

Her face heated as she remembered begging him to take her. Was his refusal that of
a gentleman or merely because of a line he was not willing to cross? He’d said he
didn’t have a wife. But he’d said a lot things. Most of them untrue.

The door of Whitlock’s Warehouse closed behind Annabeth with a final, fearsome thud.
The smell within made her stagger. The shouts of women—half clothed, all filthy—made
her flinch.

“I’ve done nothing,” she began, then paused to clear the sudden tickle from her throat.

“But you will.” The man on her right winked, or tried to; he was unable to close one
eye without closing the other as well, making the motion more of an exaggerated squint.
“You’ll do a lot. For everyone.” He jerked his head toward the unseen women in the
rear. “Like they do.”

“No,” she whispered.

“You want to eat?”

Considering the stench, Annabeth wasn’t sure she’d ever want to eat again. Would she
ever want to eat badly enough to do things she could only imagine? She didn’t think
so, but she’d never been truly hungry either.

“Tell you what.” The soldier on her left leaned close. “You let me lick this”—he squeezed
her breast—“I let you lick . . .” He grabbed his crotch, and his tongue snaked out.

“Me first.” The other man jerked her right.

“No.” She flew to the left.

A door opened; a gun cocked. “Mine,” came a low, vicious voice.

The men dropped her arms and fled.

Annabeth stood in the dark hall, doing her best to ignore the distant screams and
shouts. She tried to see into the shadowed room, to catch a glimpse of whoever had
spoken, but she couldn’t.

Somewhere outside, a whip cracked. Cries, then laughter. The whip sounded again. She
rubbed her arms. Those men had left bruises. She doubted they’d be her last.

“Come,” the voice whispered, and unease trickled over her. She didn’t want to go in
there, then again . . . She glanced toward the screams.

“Better mine than everyone’s, don’t you think?”

Though all she wanted was to be Ethan’s, Annabeth straightened her shoulders, lifted
her chin, and entered the room.

•   •   •

Hundreds of soldiers filled Palmer’s Factory. Most were Union deserters, rough and
violent men with no sense of morals or loyalty. But they bled red just like everyone
else. Within an hour of his arrival, Ethan had stitched wounds and bound broken limbs.
The conditions weren’t ideal—hell they were disgusting—but he had to do something
or go mad.

Where was Annabeth? What were they doing to her? Was Mikey dead? How was Ethan going
to survive if either one of them died because of him?

He asked after Mikey, but no one had seen him. And if Michael Walsh were here, someone—everyone—would
have.

The more Ethan helped people, the more people appeared in need of help. Within a few
days, he’d claimed a section of the building as an infirmary—no one seemed to care—and
did the best he could with what he had. However, without alcohol, soap, clean bandages,
or instruments, he was unable to do more for most of his patients than watch them
get worse and then die. But he couldn’t just let them expire without doing something,
even if what he did was mostly nothing.

Ethan was bent over a suppurating leg sore when a shadow blocked his light—what there
was of it.

“Whatcha doin’, Ethan?”

Ethan dropped the bowie knife, all he had with which to open the sore. He’d have to
clean the blade again, but what difference did it make? He hadn’t been able to clean
it very well in the first place. He looked up into the grinning face of—

“Mikey.”

A lump marked his brother’s forehead, and his eye was swollen, the skin around it
blue-black, but other than that, he appeared unharmed.

“I thought—” Ethan’s voice broke.

“What?” Mikey sat on the other side of the patient, who glanced back and forth between
the two of them with interest.

“I thought they hung you.”

“Me?” Mikey laughed. “I’d break the tree.”

“He would,” the patient agreed.

Ethan ignored him. “I’m sure they could have found another way to execute you, if
they’d wanted to.”

That they hadn’t was another curiosity to add to the ones he already had.

“Where have you been?” he asked. It had been a week since the rendezvous night. “What
happened?”

“You think you could talk while you finish my leg?” The fellow on the cot grimaced.
“Hurts somethin’ awful.”

“Of course.” Ethan retrieved the knife, wiped off whatever muck it had accumulated
on the floor with the least-filthy cloth available, then indicated Mikey should move
back. Mikey, who’d learned the hard way not to argue with Ethan in situations like
these, did.

“Went to the place you said,” Mikey began. “Soon’s me and the sniper arrived, we were
surrounded. Rebs took their time gettin’ us from there to here. Kept us in a barn
for a few days while they waited for orders.”

Ethan pinched his lips together and punctured the sore with the tip of the knife.
The knife wasn’t sharp enough, and he had to exert more pressure than he liked. The
wound rose up on both sides of the blade, and Ethan considered what he would try next
if this didn’t work. Then the tight skin gave with a soft
pop,
and pestilence erupted as high as Mikey’s shoulder.

“Ahh.” The deserter sighed. “Thanks, Doc.”

Ethan pressed a damp cloth to the mess. “Hold that a while.”

Wouldn’t do any good. The leg was infected so deeply, all Ethan could do was release
the gore when it became too painful. But that was more than anyone else had done.

Ethan drew his brother aside. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Same here.” Mikey slapped Ethan on the shoulder hard enough to make him step sideways.
Ethan punched Mikey in the arm. His brother rubbed at the area as if Ethan had hurt
him. Neither one of them could stop smiling.

They were Yankee spies in a Confederate prison, and heaven only knew if they’d survive,
but for the moment, they were alive and they were together. At this point, it was
probably the best they could hope for.

“I want you to meet Fedya.”

“The sniper?”

Mikey nodded, beckoning Ethan to follow. “I like him.”

As Mikey liked everyone, Ethan didn’t comment. They were still a good distance from
a group gathering at the opposite end of the warehouse when Mikey paused, head tilting.

“Hey, killer.”

The words, low and vicious, seemed to echo around the suddenly silent room. Mikey
strode ahead, shoving his way through a cluster of prisoners, Ethan at his heels.

A tall, dark-haired man sat on a cot in the center of the crowd. His fists clenched,
he glared at the floor.

“Fedya,” Mikey murmured, taking a step forward.

Ethan set a hand on his brother’s arm as a man punched Fedya in the shoulder. “Hear
you’re quite the sniper.”

Ethan recognized the voice even before Fedya shifted and revealed the speaker. Not
a prisoner, but a guard, and the worst of the lot.

As wide as he was tall, which wasn’t very, the man Ethan knew only as Beltrane possessed
a squashed nose and protruding black eyes. He prodded Fedya in the stomach with the
barrel of his Richmond rifle. “You must be the best if they sent you to kill the president
and General Lee. We’re gonna make you pay for that, boy. Pay long.”

Fedya began to stand, and one of the other guards—all of them seemed to be here, which
made Ethan wonder who was elsewhere—slammed a rifle into his head. When the sniper
went to his knees, they began to kick him. The other inmates did not come to his aid.
Instead they shouted encouragement and placed bets on how long until he lost consciousness.
Or died.

It was most likely a mistake. One both he and Mikey would be sorry for, but Ethan
couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. As Mikey was already grabbing offenders
and tossing them out of the way, Ethan waded in, too.