An Outlaw in Wonderland (8 page)

E
than woke alone. He couldn’t think why that bothered him. When
didn’t
he wake alone?

The scent of lavender rose from his pillow, and his usual morning erection went so
rigid, he gasped.

“Hell,” he muttered, and sat up. What had he done?

He threw back the blanket, saw a dark splotch of blood on the cot, and winced. Instead
of taking Annabeth’s virginity beneath the sun, he’d done so beneath the moon. Didn’t
make it any better.

He would have to marry her.

The weight on his chest lightened. Yes, he was in prison, but so was she. His fault,
but she didn’t blame him. She knew all his secrets, and still she had given herself
to him.

He had to find her. This proved more difficult than ending the war.

At least Mikey still lived. That turned out to be the only good news of the day.

No one had seen Annabeth since last night. The prisoners knew nothing, the guards
the same. His demands for information were met with a cuff on the head.

Day after day he sat at Mikey’s side and stared at the door. Every time it opened,
his heart lifted. Every time it closed without sight of her, it fell. He understood
that the more desperate he became, the funnier the guards thought it was. Even if
they’d known where she was, they wouldn’t have told him. Tired of their laughter and
jibes, their offhanded slaps and cuffs, Ethan stopped asking. The instant he was free,
he would find her.

His main concern was Mikey. The injury suppurated at one point, oozing a foul-smelling
discharge. He traded everything he had in the infirmary for some alcohol, opened the
wound, cleansed it, and sewed it shut again.

His brother slept on.

Ethan spent every waking hour wetting Mikey’s lips with a cloth, hoping some of the
water went down his throat. He did not sleep on the cot that smelled of her, but rested
his head next to Mikey’s huge hand when he could no longer keep his eyes open.

One morning, he awoke. Someone had tapped his head. Ethan peered around. It was so
early; the only thing up besides him was the sun. He scratched where the tap had occurred,
thinking perhaps he had lice. It wouldn’t be the first time. Then he turned his gaze
to his brother. Mikey’s eyes were open.

Ethan blinked. So did Mikey.

Ethan reached for a cup of water, nearly knocked it over, brought it to his brother’s
lips, and helped him to drink. That he could was very encouraging.

“Can you speak?” he asked.

Mikey nodded but didn’t.

“Do you know your name?”

Mikey nodded again.

“Can you say it?”

“M-M—”

Joy filled Ethan. It was a miracle.

“Mikhail,” his brother blurted.

“No,” Ethan said. “You’re Michael. Mikey. Walsh.”

Mikey scowled, wincing when the expression pulled his stitches. “I’m Mikhail Romanov.”
He looked around. “Where’s my brother?”

“I’m your brother.”

Mikey returned his gray gaze to Ethan’s. “Mister, I ain’t never seen you before in
my life.”

•   •   •

Moze stood at the window, gun drawn, as horses approached the Phelan farm.

Annabeth had her father’s Navy Colt out as well. She was glad she’d buried it in the
orchard before she’d left. From the appearance of the place, both armies had been
through here.

Several times.

Moze holstered his weapon. “It’s them.”

“Luke.” Annabeth ran toward the door. Moze cursed, called her name, snatched at her
skirt, but nothing was going to keep her from her brother. Not after all she’d done
to find him.

Five men sat their horses in the yard. Four wore gray, the fifth a jumble of clothes
that were far too large for him. He was dirty; he smelled. His hands were tied.

“Where’s Luke?”

Someone shoved the smelly man off his horse. He landed with a thud that sent dust
billowing across Annabeth’s feet. “Luke Phelan, as ordered.” But it wasn’t her brother.

Annabeth turned to Moze. “I told you one of us should be at the exchange.” Then, to
her horror, she burst into tears.

She’d sacrificed the man she loved—she hadn’t meant to, but the fact remained that
she had—to get her brother back. That she hadn’t was either poetic justice or perhaps
the laughter of God at someone who believed she could orchestrate fate.

A half hour later, the strangers were gone, taking the man who wasn’t her brother
with them. His name was Luke Celan. An honest mistake, the leader said, though how
anyone could confuse dirt-brown hair with Phelan red, Annabeth had no idea.

“You just exchanged the Union’s greatest sniper for a farm boy who can’t hit a tree
with a shotgun from five yards away,” Annabeth muttered.

“You don’t know that. Maybe he can.”

“I know he isn’t Luke. Dammit, Moze. What a waste!”

“I’ll keep looking.”

“You’ve done a fine job so far.”

He remained silent, and she felt bad. Moze loved Luke, too.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . . All that work. The lies. Ethan. Mikey. Castle
Thunder, Moze. And we still don’t have Luke. We aren’t even sure if he was in that
prison in the first place. What if he was hung for a partisan?”

“I think they might have mentioned that when we asked to get him back.”

“I think they might not have,” Annabeth murmured.

“I’ll find him. I promise.” Moze stood; his gaze flicked around the barren farmhouse.
Only a few crates and the sofa, no doubt too big to drag off on a horse, remained.
“Maybe you should come with me.”

“Maybe you should—” Annabeth bit off the angry suggestion. She’d made quite a few
since he’d carted her bodily away from Ethan and deposited her here. “I’m staying.
Luke might wander down the lane tomorrow.”

“I’m not a fool, Annie Beth Lou. It isn’t Luke you’re waiting for.”

•   •   •

Ethan watched Mikey pace in front of the windows like a caged beast. Sometimes he
even growled.

“Gotta find him,” Mikey muttered.

“Mike—” Ethan paused as Mikey swung around, fists clenched. “Mikhail,” he corrected.
“Who are you looking for?”

“My brother, Alexi.”

Ethan managed not to flinch. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

Mikey rubbed at his head. Ethan fought not to yank his fingers away. Not only might
that result in a punch to the face—his once-gentle brother had become inexplicably
violent—but Mikey’s injury was nearly healed—at least on the outside. Ethan doubted
touching the scar would cause any further damage.

“Where am I?” Mikey asked.

He’d asked before, and Ethan had answered. Maybe one of these times the words would
help Mikey remember the truth.

“Castle Thunder Prison.”

“Prison.” Mikey’s nose wrinkled. “Don’t like the smell.”

“I know, Mikey.”

“Don’t call me that!” His fingers clenched again. “What kind of man lets hisself be
called by that baby name? I’m Mikhail.” He slammed his fist into his chest. “Mikhail
Romanov.”

“All right,” Ethan agreed, though he doubted he’d ever be able to address Michael
Walsh as Mikhail Romanov. “Maybe you could describe your brother. Maybe I just don’t
know him by name.”

Mikey’s fingers unfurled. “Dark hair, blue eyes. ’Bout the same height as you. Talks
real purdy in all sorts of languages.”

Fedya
.

“His name isn’t Alexi,” Ethan began.

Mikey drove his fist into the wall. The plank cracked. A second blow caused the wood
to splinter.

“Hey!” the nearest guard shouted. “Stop that! You want I should fetch Beltrane?”

Ethan lifted his hand. “It’s all right. I’ll—” He paused. What would he do? His brother
not only didn’t know him, but he didn’t seem to like him much either.

“Gotta find him,” Mikey repeated. “All we have is each other.”

Ethan should have been happy that Mikey was alive and able to walk, talk, feed, and
dress himself. Instead, he was furious. He missed Annabeth so much sometimes, he thought
he might die. If anything happened to her—

His fingernails bit into his palms. If anything happened to her, he wouldn’t know.
Because he was in here, and she was . . . not. He felt so goddamn impotent.

“I’ll see if I can discover anything in regard to your brother,” Ethan said.

Perhaps he’d have more luck getting information about Fedya than he’d had when he
tried to learn anything about Annabeth. But he doubted it.

“Gotta get out of here,” Mikey muttered, then wandered away.

For the next few days, Ethan was occupied with an outbreak of fever, and without Annabeth’s
or Mikey’s help, he fell onto his cot exhausted long after midnight. He saw his brother
here and there; he seemed to be making friends among the inmates.

One afternoon, a commotion at the front of the factory drew Ethan’s attention. The
guards shouted, shoving prisoners. The prisoners laughed and jeered.

Ethan wandered in that direction. “What happened?”

“Escape attempt.”

“Again?” Escape attempts were common. Very few succeeded. They were in the middle
of the Confederate capital with armies all around. Where would they go?

“One got away.” The prisoner grinned. “Can’t find him nowheres.”

“Which one?” Ethan asked.

“That Russian feller.” Ethan stilled as the man tapped his forehead. “One that done
got shot in the head. Can’t say’s it slowed him down none.”

•   •   •

Annabeth spent most of her time on the farm. Whenever she went to town, people whispered—
traitor, sympathizer, spy
. A few even spat. Richmond might be the capital of the Confederacy, but gossip traveled.
What else did folks have to do but share the story of how the Chimborazo matron turned
nurse had been carted off to Castle Thunder with a spy. That she’d been released eventually
did not signify innocence. Instead it only inspired more tales of what she might have
done to secure that freedom.

Annabeth laid her palm protectively over her still-flat stomach. As time went on,
it was only going to get worse.

Moze brought food. She didn’t tell him about the whispers or the spitting—or her stomach.
What good would it do? He’d want her to leave, and she wasn’t going to go. But she
didn’t sleep well. She started up at every rustle. One night, several weeks after
she’d returned to the farm, she heard a lot more than that.

“Annabeth Phelan! Come on out here now. You make us come in, you might not like what
happens.”

She already knew she wasn’t going to like what happened.

Her fingers tightened around her Colt as she went to the window. Six men. She didn’t
know them. So how in hell did they know her?

“Can’t fraternize with the enemy and expect to walk free and easy now, can you?”

Wouldn’t do any good to explain that she’d been working secretly for the South. No
one would believe her.

Annabeth set down her daddy’s Colt and went outside.

•   •   •

In the spring of 1865, the war ended at last. Once Ethan was released from prison,
he was able to return to Chimborazo and retrieve his things. He’d had the wherewithal
to sew some gold pieces, along with his father’s watch and his mother’s ring, into
the cuff of a very old pair of trousers. Once he ripped them open, he bought a horse,
asked a few questions about the Phelans, and then followed the provided directions
to the farm on the outskirts of Richmond.

As he dismounted, the wind whistled through the empty barn. Was the place as deserted
as it felt? If he called her name, would she answer? What if she’d disappeared from
Richmond as she’d disappeared from Castle Thunder? What if she were dead?

Ethan swallowed and went to the front door. Did he knock or did he just go in? He
lifted his hand, but before he could decide, the door flew open.

“Your hair!” he blurted.

Annabeth lifted a hand to her shaved head. “It’ll grow back.”

“How?” he asked. “Why?”

“It’s a common punishment.”

“Punishment?” he repeated. “For what?” Ethan couldn’t think what she might have done
to deserve this.

“Fraternizing with the enemy.”

It took him an instant to realize she meant him. Certainly she was from Virginia;
he’d only pretended to be. But they’d worked at each other’s sides to save lives.
Neither one of them had cared if those lives were Yankee or Reb.

“You were nursing soldiers,” he said. “Just because you were helping me—”

“I was doing more than helping you, Ethan.” Her gaze met his, and he remembered what
they had done. The only thing that had kept him sane in the past three months was
the hope that he could someday do it again.

“No one knew.” Ethan considered her patchy scalp. Or at least he’d thought no one
knew.

She turned, and her skirt tightened across her middle, revealing the slight rounding
of her stomach beneath her dress.

“Beth,” he whispered, and she lifted her gaze, smiling at the wonder in his.

“I’m with child.”

Dizziness washed over him. He put out a hand, and she took it, hers tightening. What
if the war had gone on? What if he’d died in prison? What if she’d died out here?

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she yanked her hand away. He stumbled forward, trying to
get it back.

“I’m not,” she snapped. “This baby is the only good thing that’s happened to me since—”
Her voice broke.

“Since?”

“Since Fort Sumter.”

He went silent. He remembered a lot of good things—the first day they’d met, the first
time they’d kissed, the scent of her hair, the drift of her breath, the feel of her
skin in the dark, the people they’d saved, the life they’d had—certainly it hadn’t
been easy, but it had been theirs.

“Why didn’t you come to Castle Thunder and tell me?”

“It’s a prison, Ethan. They weren’t going to let me in.”

“Why did they let you out?”

“They never had any proof I wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She covered
her mouth, coughed. Was she ill? He wanted to put his hand to her forehead, but she
held herself just out of reach. “Whitlock’s was overcrowded, so they released me.
I was afraid if I came back, if I insisted on seeing you . . .” Her voice drifted
off.