1865

Captain James West marveled at the abundance in the general store—and the color. Bright bolts of red, blue, and yellow cloth furnished a drab table. Jams of varying hues neatly stacked on a counter created a translucent patchwork. And fragile, blue patterned porcelain ware embellished a corner.

"William! Don't touch that!"

A mother at the main counter slapped at her child's arm dug deep into a pastel candy jar on a low stool. The tyke's face was screwed up in determination as he refused. A small smile crossed James' lips. The jar must represent an irresistible bounty to the child. About what he thought of the whole darn store himself. Candy was a good deal tastier than weeks of fried hardtack.

James approached the mother, sticking the book he carried under his arm and digging a coin out of his pocket. "Here. For him."

The mother looked up, mouth open in what James assumed would have been a lecture, except her eyes took in his uniform and rank insignia. "Oh! Captain, isn't it? We don't want to take your pay."

"It's all right. I can afford it."

"Well, really, he shouldn't want it," the mother went on, handing over the coin to the clerk behind the counter while her little one snatched out a sweet stick and began to suck on it and blink curiously at the soldier towering over him. "What with all you boys suffered on the field and the war hardly ended, it doesn't seem right."

Her words echoed in James' ears, turning his mouth from a smile to a hard line. Doesn't seem right. He understood the sentiment all too well, only it had nothing to do with young boys and candy.

"It's the right thing to do, ma'am," James insisted.

"Well, then, thank you! For the candy. And your sacrifices."

James nodded and laid the book on the counter as the woman and her child left the store. He set his money in the clerk's hand but stopped when he noted the man staring at him rather than completing the purchase. "Something wrong?"

"Emerson?"

James peered down at the book, Ralph Waldo Emerson's The Conduct of Life. He hadn't read that one since his college days. He'd been reminded of the work when Dr. Robey mentioned it in their last correspondence. "What's wrong with it?"

"Just…wouldn't expect someone like you to want such a thing." The shopkeeper clanged at his till, inputting the money then handing James the change.

James huffed a laugh as he picked up the book and exited into the bright sunlight. He paused outside, pulling his hat farther forward to shield his face and take in the busy city street. Six short days ago, the war had ended. He'd returned to Washington along with Grant in a parade of welcome and celebration. The elation of the moment had dried up when he'd been abruptly dropped into a grand room in a grand hotel and been released to do whatever he wanted.

James rubbed at his chin, watching all kinds of people passing by. Traders bustled in and out of stores, women scooted children back and forth on the lanes, and horses and carriages clip clopped past every which way. Suits and dresses and voices drifted past him, but they weren't going on about maps and strategies and bases of operation. They talked of romance and bargaining and the latest personal gossip. Normal things.

James glanced down at the book in his hands. Less than a week ago all he'd had on his mind was the best way to keep himself and his men out of the way of a whizzing bullet. Now it was over, and all the blood, sweat, and tears had been worth it. They had won. The union stood. Everyone in the country was free.

A sudden shout drew James' attention to the middle of the road. "What are you doing? Get out of the way!" A horse driver in a carriage had pulled up his team and was brandishing his horsewhip and shrieking at a man pushing a wheelbarrow. A black man. The man tried to redirect his unwieldy cargo but he wasn't fast enough and the carriage driver kept shouting.

A tremor rippled down James' spine just as it always had at the first trumpet blast ordering a charge into enemy lines. Without thinking, he obeyed, stuffing the book into his coat pocket and dashing across the street. He reached the man with the wheelbarrow, grabbed ahold of it, and helped push it to the side of the street. He rounded on the carriage driver who was yelling a string of curse words but before he could shout back the driver whipped at his horses and bolted off down the road.

"Thank you," a soft voice said from behind him. James turned round, for the first time taking in the man with a thin line of hair gracing his upper lip and a short goatee on his chin. "The road's not been in good repair since the war started."

"You're welcome," James replied, glancing at the wheelbarrow stuffed with an odd assortment of fruits and vegetables. "If you don't mind my asking, what did I just save?"

The young man smiled widely. "Food. For my pets."

"Your pets?" James raised his eyebrows.

"Well, I get to call them my pets. Actually, they're my boss' pets, but he lets me treat them once in a while." When James did nothing but look confused the man laughed. "I'm employed by a carnival." He stuck out his hand. "Name's Jeremiah."

James shook the man's hand. "James." When the man let go, James pushed back his hat on his head. "There's a carnival here? So soon after the war?"

Jeremiah nodded. "The boss says people will want to celebrate." He looked West up and down. "You're a union officer."

Was he? The war had ended. And he had a letter in his pocket. And because of it, he wasn't sure what he was anymore.

"Hey," Jeremiah prompted. James looked up. The man was grinning again and digging into his pocket. He pulled out an advertisement and held it out. "If you come, I'll get you in free. I know a way to sneak you in the back."

James huffed a laugh as he accepted the paper printed with a dancing bear, an elephant, and a girl balancing on a rope and holding a pink parasol. "Thanks." Jeremiah nodded and proceeded on down the street pushing his wheelbarrow.

James watched him. Most took no notice of him, passing right by. But several who ended up in his way stared down at him as if he had offended them somehow. James' gut twisted. Freedom had been declared, but he wondered how long it would take for that freedom to flourish. Maybe all they'd won in the war was a seed.

As James moved on, the letter in his breast pocket crinkled, the summons he'd been expecting that beckoned him to his future. But he had a couple hours to kill first. He glanced up and down the street wondering if there might be anyone else out there with wheelbarrows being runover he could rescue. He flicked his fingers restlessly and continued his aimless wandering.

A quarter of an hour later and James felt like one giant itch that couldn't be scratched, like a man dropped into a gilded cage. And when he saw a uniform on the steps of a home ahead, he bolted towards it as if it were his salvation.

"Sir! Sir!"

The officer on the steps paused and James slid to stop, barely keeping his mouth from falling open. "James? James West?"

"General Ball. I haven't seen you since—" James went silent, his gaze slipping to the man's right hand, or what should have been his right hand.

"Shiloh," the general said quietly.

"I'm…glad to see you here, general. That you're all right."

The general grunted. "All right. That's a relative term, don't you think?"

"You gave yourself to a great cause," James said.

"Hm." The general eyed the home he'd been about to enter. "Why don't you come with me. See the results of our just war." The general continued up the steps. James followed, brow gathered tightly. When the door opened, the first person James saw was a soldier without a leg hobbling past aided by an aproned nurse.

The general continued on and James trailed him, taking in the rooms turned hospital, or rather, convalescent home for soldiers recuperating from war injuries. James passed men whose heads were fully wrapped except for eyes and mouth, men with various missing appendages, and men who sat staring into nothing. He'd seen wounds aplenty on the field, but he'd never thought much about where the unfortunates ended up.

The general entered a room, striding up to a bed occupied by a man with a bandage wound round his eyes. "John, it's me."

The man straightened against his pillow. "General!" His hand moved to salute, but the general pulled it back down.

"Not here. You've done your duty. I owe you the salute."

"General, you know I respect you."

"I know. Tell me. Have you seen Laura?"

The man's mouth turned downwards and his chin trembled. "Not yet."

"She'll come."

"But what if she—"

"She'll come." The general spoke firmly, as if his statement were an assured thing.

James backed up to the doorway, feeling the moment too private for a stranger. He studied the wounded being led back and forth through the hall. So much maiming and destruction.

A few minutes later, the general approached, nodded at him, and headed to the entrance. James passed once more through the sobering halls and out the front door. The general turned on him the moment the door clacked shut.

"So what do you think, Captain?"

James considered the door before answering. "They sacrificed for a great cause just like you."

General Ball grunted. "And for that sacrifice, what purpose is left to them?"

James swallowed hard. The letter in his pocket seemed to taunt him with the same question about himself. "Their purpose is to become whole again."

General Ball laughed loud and held up the stub of his right arm. "Whole?"

James clenched his jaw. "I meant healthy. They'll get healthy." He was probably supposed to be sad, but all he felt was that these men had something to do—heal. Not that he wanted to exchange places with them, but there was something exhilarating in being downed in the fight and having to work your way back up, to crawl when your body wanted nothing to do but lie down and give in.

The general sighed. "Some will heal. Others won't. Then what will they do with them? You know what they want to do with me? Send me out West. Their greatest tactician and they want me sitting on my laurels in a wasteland."

James pulled himself up straighter. "They need good men out there, sir."

The general snorted. "Expendable men."

"Sir—"

"Well, Captain, you haven't told me about yourself. Why are you in Washington?

James acquiesced to the change in topic. "I have a meeting with General Grant."

General Ball's eyes flashed. "A meeting?"

"About my future."

General Ball snorted and grabbed James' shoulder. "Well, let's hope they don't put you out to pasture like me. It's not a fun place to be, Jim." He squeezed James firmly as he voiced the familiar address softly, then left, marching back down the stairs and into the street.

James moved to the railing on the veranda, grasping it as he watched the general stride away. He glanced at the busy streets once more, then at the clear blue sky. The damning letter crinkled as he did so, ever present. His stomach churned as he imagined himself standing before Grant. All he could conjured up was resignation papers and a handshake. Or worse, the offer of a desk to sit behind for the rest of his life.

Way back when he'd been a child, before his father had left him, he'd seen a pasture with a tired horse nibbling feebly at brown grass. Too used up, his father had said. Put out to pasture. West gripped the railing hard, his back stiffening. That horse died in less than a year from being fenced in.

James pulled the woman in his lap closer, running his hands over every soft curve. He kissed her, relishing the hint of alcohol on her lips and flowery perfume on her neck. She suddenly pulled away, pushing him back and fixing him with shining eyes. "Well, my goodness. You sure do take the breath out of a girl."

James blinked. His eyes glazed as he scanned the saloon. He barely remembered coming in here. The girl had been beckoning as he passed and he'd just…gone to her. He'd needed her. He'd bought her a drink. She'd sat in his lap and then—

James pulled her back into him. He didn't want talking. He wanted comfort. Simplicity. Ease. No thoughts of the future. Of what was to come. He kissed her again and she melted into him like someone else. Someone he'd left behind.

The room disappeared and he was flung back to another time, running pell-mell through town and forest and field, climbing trees and breathing in the taste of a girl brown of skin and eye with a happy, twinkling grin that sometimes faded into a serious contemplation of life. Maria…whenever he'd been with Maria everything had felt simple and clear. And good.

The woman pulled back from his kiss, grinning. "Been a long time, huh, soldier?"

James frowned. The woman giggled as he went right back to kissing her. His lips covered hers and his hands ran up and down her back. He closed his eyes. The softness, the curves, the womanly comfort. He needed her. Needed this. Needed…Maria.

"General. I'm sorry I'm late." James sucked in several breaths to steady his breathing after a lengthy run, reprimanding himself for getting too carried away with the woman in the saloon.

Grant waved a hand without looking up behind his desk peppered with papers. "I'm too occupied anyway. And I know if my captain is late, he has a good reason." As Grant continued to scratch along a piece of paper, James frowned. He had seen Grant at the worst of times when the weight of command bowed his shoulders, but sitting behind the desk as he was now with his shoulders slumped, he looked simply tired. The weight of the battlefield was gone and an exhausted man had been left behind.

James flicked his fingers at his sides. After years of war, he should be tired, too, shouldn't he? "It's strange to see you behind a desk, sir."

Grant stilled his pen, looked up, and cracked a smile. "I suppose it is."

"I received your summons." James held out the letter.

Grant looked at it a moment, then dropped his pen and stood. "Well, then, it's that time, Captain." He reached down and shuffled through the papers, drawing one out. He opened it, turned it round, and lay it on the desk for James to see. "I had to figure out what to do with you."

A lump settled in James' throat as Grant gestured for him to pick up the paper. James lifted it, skimming a list of military positions, cities, and various postings. He looked up. "Sir?"

Grant grinned. "You know you've made an impression. I wanted to set you up with a cushy commission, but then West Point said it wanted you, too. Something about training and teaching."

"Teaching?" West echoed, the lump in his throat dissolving into a relieved swallow.

"You'd be an asset, but don't decide too soon. The whole country's open to you, Jim, whatever you want to do."

James blinked at the list. It was there, most everything he could choose from. Very few desk jobs and most a challenge. A warm shiver cascaded down his back. He wasn't going to be put out to pasture. Far from it. In fact, now he felt a bit overwhelmed by it all. James held out the list. "And what do you recommend, general?"

Grant suddenly laughed loud and hard. "By Providence, Jim, you're too good a man to waste on my personal preferences. I want you to think for yourself." He waved at the list. "Take it. Go somewhere. Think it over. And get some rest. You've earned it."

James felt a smile slowly creeping across his face.

"Actually, if I had one recommendation it would be to go home. Visit your father."

James' smile froze. His father. The man had paid his way through university, West Point, and yet…there was still that awkward distance between them whenever they met, a gap that neither liked but was inevitable. Family still felt far more to James like a schoolyard priest and a martial arts instructor and a girl from "the wrong side of town."

"Ahhhh," said Grant, sitting back down and leaning back in his chair. "I see. Something closer might be more acceptable at the moment. Well, I happen to have just the thing for you." He pulled out a drawer in the desk and withdrew two yellow tickets. "I received several complementary chairs from Ford's Theatre to hand out to whomever I wish. Perhaps a consolation when I declined the President's invitation to sit in his own box tonight. Julia wants to visit her parents, so I acquiesce and you get to take these."

Grant held the tickets out and James accepted them, peering down at them. The play was listed as "Our American Cousin." He vaguely recalled the title.

"Find a girl, James," Grant instructed. "Go out. And have some fun for a change."

James cupped his hand against a slim warm waist as he entered the theater's foyer. The waist's owner blinked in wide-eyed awe at the fine red carpets and curtaining.

"Imagine this. Me. At a theater." She turned her brilliant smile on James and he smiled back. The woman from the bar cleaned up rather well actually, though her purple get-up with the tassels was a bit garish and did draw an eye here or there, but he didn't care. He'd been commanded to enjoy himself, and he was going to. Even if he had to do it at a theater.

They joined the throng making their way through the foyer to the wide-open doors into the auditorium.

"I just can't believe it," the woman on his arm, Clara as she'd given her name, gushed. "You really were Grant's secretary? Are you sure you told me the truth?"

James smiled at her, leaned close, pecked her cheek, then shook his head. "Clara, I was his aide de campe, not secretary."

She stared wide eyed. "I just can't believe it. I can't."

"Well, these are real, aren't they?" James said, holding up the tickets. "Or do you think I conjured them with a magic wand?"

The woman giggled. "They sure are real. Imagine that. I meet a man off the street and he takes me here. Gosh. You're amazing, you know that?"

A flutter worked its way through the middle of James' chest. His life had taken a turn. A good one. A perfect one. He'd even suffer a night of playacting for the way he felt right now. As a rule, he didn't really take to pretending. He didn't like people who weren't themselves and actors spent their whole lives never knowing who they were.

The girl wrapped her arm around his. "We're almost there." James nodded as they approached the door to the auditorium.

"So you see, dear man, all you must do is put yourself inside another skin until you are lost within it like the broad ocean embraces the world."

James halted, a prickle tickling the back of his neck. He peered over his shoulder. That voice talking about getting inside skin, it was…familiar.

"James?" Clara asked. James tightened his grip on her arm. "What's wrong?"

"That…voice." He scanned the crowd. Where had it come from? There was something about it, something that made his blood race, something that made him suddenly…see red.

"Oh, but that's simple. If the role is outside your purview, you observe and witness and wander amongst the rabble until you find what will make you a new man."

There. Across the foyer. Near a set of stairs. A man with dark hair, a debonair smile, twinkling eyes. James' heart skipped a beat when the man glanced at the crowd and his gaze fell on James. There was a moment of confusion, then recognition, and then horror. He blinked the last away in less than a second, but James had seen it. The man hurriedly shook hands with his partner in conversation and took off down a set of stairs.

James stuffed a ticket in Clara's hand. "Go inside. I'll be back."

"James? James!" Clara called as he rushed off after the voice.

He knew those eyes. He'd know them anywhere even though right now they were in a face he shouldn't have recognized. The Rebel spy. From Vicksburg. Who'd somehow managed to give Lieutenant Weeks the slip before he could be done away with. Well, James could finish the job.

Author's Note: A couple of cameos in this one: Jeremiah from "The Night of the Returning Dead" and General Ball from "The Night of the Double-Edged Knife." Not every chapter will have cameos, but I've had fun throwing some in. I've thought of going back and noting them on previous chapters. If that interests you, let me know.

I'm already at work on Artie's chapter and can't wait to share the outcome of his third meeting with Jim!