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“Never.” Garth resisted the urge to haul Matthew over his shoulder and run. His wound couldn’t take it. Instead, he continued to drag his friend while he scouted for a hiding place. Shots boomed around them. Garth’s ears had long since gotten used to the ringing. The Rebs wouldn’t stay scattered for long, and not enough men had survived from Garth’s regiment to cover him and Matthew.
They had to hide, and they had to hide quickly.
The biting scent of gunpowder thickened the air. Garth inhaled, his throat raw. Though not injured, he was fatigued from fighting. He was bone weary. His legs numbed beneath him and gave out. He toppled to the hard dirt next to Matthew.
“Garth.”
Matthew words were dense, sounded like he was speaking through a bubble. He let out a string of garbled directives that Garth couldn’t translate. He stood and began again to drag his friend to safety.
If safety even existed.
The ground shook with a cannon’s rumble. Shrill screams swelled through the heavy air until they were distorted into hollow howls.
Ghosts. Union-clad specters haunting this grave site. Because that’s what it was—a grave site. No one existed to drag the rest of these men someplace else, to be mourned and buried next to loved ones.
He stumbled again but caught himself. Dusk fell, and Garth thanked whatever God might be out there. Now night would shroud them from the Rebs.
Matthew must have fainted. He made no sound, yet when Garth looked to his chest, it still rose and fell. He again whispered thanks. He didn’t know how long he’d been walking when he found the hole. Or what he thought was a hole. More like an underground cave.
The Rebs would find them. Of that he had no doubt. He’d come to accept it after today, after watching too many Union soldiers fall. He’d been damned lucky to escape. But it was a bitter victory, and one that would be short-lived. When the Rebs caught him, he would die.
He wasn’t going home.
Right now, he needed rest. Needed to see to Matthew’s injuries. Perhaps he could do something for his friend. Perhaps…
He lowered his friend into the cave and then jumped down next to him.
Pitch black. Within a few minutes, Garth’s eyes adjusted to the dark. Matthew’s light blue irises shone.
“You’re awake.”
Matthew’s breath came in shallow pants. “G-Garth. H-Hurts.”
“I know.”
Matthew gripped Garth’s shirt. “Hurts!” His voice echoed. “Do something. It hurts!”
“Damn it.” Garth’s survival instinct kicked in with a vengeance. “Be quiet,” he whispered urgently.
“Can’t. Hurts!”
Garth’s skin prickled. “You’ve got to be quiet.” He pulled his blade from its sheath at his belt and grabbed his friend. The sharp edge grazed Matthew’s throat. “You will be quiet, Matthew, or I swear to God I’ll slit your throat.”
“Garth, Garth. It’s all right. Wake up!”
“Damn it! I told you to be quiet!” He shook off the soothing touch. No time for that. Had to survive. Had to keep Matthew quiet or the Rebs would come.
“Garth, please. Wake up. You’re scaring me.”
Garth jolted. His eyes shot open. Moonlight streamed through the window. A breeze drifted over his bare skin. Beside him, a warm woman gazed at him with worried blue eyes.
Ruthie.
His Ruthie.
What had he brought her into? God, he’d wanted her. Still wanted her. But he’d had no right to saddle her with his pathetic existence.
“Garth. You were dreaming again.”
