An Outlaw in Wonderland (6 page)

He was a doctor; he spent his time healing not hurting. But he also knew how to incapacitate
a much larger foe with little but his hands and the knowledge of certain pressure
points. He hadn’t studied anatomy for nothing.

A jab to the kidneys. A thumb to the throat. A few other tricks he hoped no one saw.
Within moments, the prisoners had retreated.

“I have enough folks in my infirmary,” Ethan said. “I don’t need any more.”

Mikey growled; Beltrane glowered. But the guards left without any more violence.

Ethan wasn’t so foolish as to believe that would be the end of it.

•   •   •

“Shut the door.”

Annabeth complied. There was no one on the other side of it who would help her anyway.

The room was dark, the single window so dirty, the sunshine cast gray beams onto the
floor. The speaker stood in the corner farthest from the light. She couldn’t see his
face, or much else beyond a man-shaped shadow.

“What in hell are you doing here, Annie Beth Lou?”

Annabeth blinked. “Moze?”

He stepped into the shallow light. He was so covered in filth, she wouldn’t have recognized
him if she hadn’t known him nearly all of her days. Not recognizing his voice, she
attributed to fear, panic, and exhaustion on her part, and also the fact that he sounded
like a bullfrog with laryngitis.

“Of course,
Moze
,” he snapped. “Who do you think?”

She resisted, barely, the urge to kick, to punch, to rain her fists on his chest and
scream. “You scared me!”

“You should be scared.” He glanced at the door. “Getting you out of here is going
to take a goddamn miracle.”

“I didn’t
do
anything.” She cleared her throat. Every time Moze moved, dust filled the air.

“Well, you did, but no one knows that.” The dirt on his face cracked as he frowned.
“And maybe . . . maybe they shouldn’t.”

Annabeth thought maybe they shouldn’t either. It was bad enough that Ethan had been
caught in her trap; having him learn the trap had been hers . . .

No, thank you.

“Walsh doesn’t know you’re a spy,” Moze continued.

“I’m not.”

Moze lifted his once-sandy brow, and Annabeth cursed. She was. Or at least she would
be in Ethan’s eyes.

If he ever learned the truth.

“He trusts you. You can discover more, if you stay.”

“Discover what?” She threw up her hands. “Ethan’s in prison. What’s he going to learn
there?”

“I won’t know that until you do,” Moze said in a perfectly reasonable voice that made
her want to throttle him.

“I’m going back to Chimborazo,” she said.

“Everyone here believes you’re a traitor. Everyone there will as well.”

He was right. Ethan had been proven a Yankee spy. As the woman who was considered
his mistress, what would that make her?

She didn’t want to know.

“Luke’s at the Union prison in Rock Island, Illinois.”

Annabeth gaped at the change in subject, then blurted, “Get him out.”

“Hell, Annabeth, I can’t get you out.”

“Sure you can. You just don’t want to.” He scowled, but he didn’t deny it. “Where’s
the sniper?”

Moze’s scowl turned wary. “Why?”

“Tell me you didn’t shoot him.”

“Not yet.” His gaze narrowed. “What are you thinking?”

“Prisoner exchange.”

“That sniper’s pretty important.”

“So is Luke.”

“To us.”

“One of Mosby’s Rangers should be worth as much as a sharpshooter.”

“They might not know he’s a Ranger. If they did, they would have hung him.”

Grant
had
ordered immediate hanging for captured partisans.

“The Union is going to hand over just about anyone to get their sniper back,” she
said. “If they believe they’re giving us only a lowly cavalryman, they’ll do it even
faster.”

“My superiors won’t agree.”

“Then arrange the exchange on your own.”

“Who the hell do you think I am? Bobby Lee?”

“I think you’re a lot more than you’re saying. You want me to spy for you, Moze? Get
my brother back.”

T
hough Annabeth slept among the other female prisoners, she was not bothered by them
or the guards. Which only added to her belief that Moze was a lot more powerful than
he was letting on. Or maybe he was a lot more dangerous than he’d ever revealed. Either
way, he managed to keep her safe during the time she spent in Whitlock’s Warehouse,
and he managed to get her permission to enter Palmer’s Factory.

The joy that spread over Ethan’s face the instant he saw Annabeth was echoed in the
joy that burst to life within her at the sight of him. Whatever he’d held in his hand
dropped to the floor forgotten as he crossed the room and crushed her into his embrace.

He was still a Yankee, a spy who’d betrayed her country, the man who might be responsible
for one or more of her brothers’ deaths. But she loved him.

“Beth,” he murmured against her hair, saying the word for the first time without the
Irish lilt. Lie though his accent had been, she missed it. “I’m sorry; I’m sorry.”

She peered into his slate-gray eyes. “Me too.”

“For what? I . . .” He released her, stepped back. She was suddenly cold despite the
sweltering heat in Palmer’s Factory. “You know what I did.” She nodded. “I can’t say
I’m sorry for that. I believed—I
believe
I was saving lives.” He lifted one shoulder. “A shorter war would be best for everyone.”

After so many years of conflict, so many dead, she, too, wanted it over so they could
all move on.

“I
am
sorry I lied to you,” he continued. “That you were caught in my trap.”

Annabeth managed not to wince. It had been
her
trap, and by not saying so, she was now the one lying. But telling him would do more
harm than good.

“I can’t believe they allowed you to say good-bye.”

“Not good-bye. Not hardly. I’m your new nurse. Or maybe I’m your old nurse.”

“No,” he whispered. “You have to leave. You can’t stay here.”

“I was arrested, Ethan. I don’t get to leave.”

“I’ll tell them you had nothing to do with it.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Where’s a guard? The commandant?” He stepped past her, and she set her hand on his
arm.

“They aren’t going to believe you.”

His mouth opened, closed. “Beth,” he whispered, anguish chasing the joy from his face.
She felt like muck on the bottom of a shoe.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I have nowhere to go. I’d rather be here with you.”
And as those words were some of the truest she’d ever spoken, she smiled.

Ethan did not. “Go home.”

“Can’t.” She coughed. Perhaps she’d swallowed a cobweb.

She crossed to the patient he’d been attending. The man was unconscious. Feverish
and clammy. His leg appeared gangrenous. Considering the conditions, she wasn’t surprised.

“Doctor?” she asked.

Ethan lifted his gaze.

“Will you join me?” She raised her brows.

He hesitated, but in the end he did.

She set her hand atop his. “I don’t care what you’ve done.”

It paled in comparison to what she had.

•   •   •

Mikey spent a lot of time scrounging for things that would help Ethan.

Clean shirts could become bandages. A single shot of whiskey might cleanse a wound
just enough to allow someone to heal. Knives could become surgical instruments. Stones,
strings, pretty much anything might be useful. The trick was getting folks to part
with what was often all they possessed.

The sniper Fedya proposed the idea of making people trade for medical attention. Ethan
hadn’t liked it.

“I’m a doctor. I can’t take a man’s last clean shirt before I sew his bloody arm.”

“Then I will,” Fedya said calmly. “Or, better yet . . .” He let his gaze travel over
Mikey’s large form and lifted a brow.

“I don’t—” Ethan began.

“Precisely,” Fedya interrupted. “You don’t. You’re trying to save people with spit
and a rusty needle. I admire you for it, even if you are ten times a fool.”

“Thanks,” Ethan muttered.

“Dobro pozhalovat,”
Fedya returned, and Ethan frowned. “You’re welcome,” Fedya translated with a smirk.

For some reason, it annoyed Ethan when Fedya spoke in foreign tongues, which only
made Fedya do it more often. Fedya had an ear for languages, and in Castle Thunder
there were so many men from so many different countries, he sometimes spent hours
learning from them.

Though Ethan and Fedya snarled and scowled at each other a lot, they also seemed to
like being together. Some nights when Ethan sat up with a patient, Mikey would wake
and see the two of them talking quietly together. Mikey thought Ethan needed a friend,
and he couldn’t find a better one than Fedya.

“I’ll ask for payment, Ethan.” Mikey didn’t mind. Most times, all he had to do was
ask.

“It isn’t as though you’re making the request for yourself, Doctor,” Fedya said. “You’re
doing it for them.”

He spread out his long-fingered hand, the gesture reminding Mikey of a man he’d seen
once in a traveling show. That fellow had pulled a coin from behind someone’s ear.
Mikey had always wanted to do that. Maybe Fedya could teach him. He’d already taught
Mikey a few Russian words, which Mikey whispered to himself each night before he slept.
They sounded so pretty.

“Gentlemen.” Miss Annabeth had arrived. Every morning a guard brought her from Whitlock’s
Warehouse to Palmer’s Factory; she spent the day helping Ethan in the infirmary. At
night they took her back.

“
Senorita
.” Fedya clicked his heels and bowed.

Annabeth rolled her eyes. She always treated Fedya like an annoying little brother.
Mikey should know.

She patted Mikey’s arm the way she did whenever she saw him—absently, but with love—or
at least he thought it was love. No one had ever loved him but Ethan and their da,
which wasn’t the same thing as a woman’s caring. However, when Annabeth looked at
Ethan, love was all Mikey saw. She loved Ethan nearly as much as Ethan loved her.
Seeing them together almost made being here all right.

Almost.

They were still in prison, and for Mikey, who was used to being out in the sun and
the wind, to riding and tracking and hunting, prison hurt. Sometimes his stomach clenched
from lack of food, his head ached from the stale air and dust, and he longed so much
to stand beneath the sky, he thought he might cry.

If he’d been here alone, Mikey wasn’t sure he’d have survived. But as long as he had
his brother, who would never let anything truly bad happen to him, and Fedya, who
was always good for a laugh or some sort of entertainment, Mikey managed. Along with
the foreign words, which kept Mikey from being too bored, Fedya also taught Mikey
and some of the other prisoners to imagine.

“Close your eyes,” he’d say. “Think of a time when you were not here. Be there instead.”

That helped. And as the days became weeks, then lengthened into months within the
walls of Castle Thunder, Fedya organized games.

Not poker or checkers—they didn’t have cards or a board. Instead they made believe
that they were other people, in other places and times. Fedya was the best. When he
pretended to be someone else, he
became
them. It was almost scary. Mikey didn’t often get to play—Ethan needed him—but when
he did, he loved it.

The guards even watched their performances. Better than what those men would have
done with their time otherwise. The guards had games, too. Ones no one wanted to play.

This was brought home to Mikey one afternoon when he went in search of Fedya and could
not find him. They were in prison. Where could he be?

Shots erupted, closer than the distant artillery. These came from the brick enclosure
between the buildings that was used for lashings and executions. Mikey had never been
there.

He’d heard whispers of the games played with Fedya. Mikey had seen his friend perform
incredible feats of marksmanship. He could understand why someone might want to see
for themselves how spectacular Fedya was.

Mikey headed toward those shots. The door leading to the courtyard yawned wide. No
need to worry that any prisoners might escape when there were several armed men standing
just outside.

“Thought you were a killer.”

Mikey didn’t need to see the speaker to know who it was. Beltrane, the most vicious
guard at Castle Thunder, carried a whip on his belt, which he used often and well.

It was no doubt because of Beltrane that the former commandant, George W. Alexander,
had been called before the authorities to answer to charges of brutality. Though Alexander
had been cleared, the cruelty continued even after Dennis Callahan replaced him.

“I . . .” Fedya’s voice trailed off. Mikey didn’t like what he heard in that single
word. Fedya was not only confused but frightened. Mikey stepped into the doorway as
Beltrane uncoiled his whip.

“You shot my cousin in the head, you fucking filth.”

“I . . .” Fedya said again, then stopped.

The whip snapped, and Fedya jumped. So did Mikey. Beltrane laughed; the other guards
did, too. “We gotta make this more interesting.”

Fedya was near the far end of the enclosure. A kid who still wore the remnants of
a gray uniform stood on the other side, shaking so badly, the can atop his head shimmied.
The three holes through the tin revealed where the shots Mikey had heard moments ago
had gone.

Beltrane chewed upon the last bit of a cigar and stared at Fedya; loathing spilled
from his dark eyes.

“There you are.” Mikey stepped into the courtyard. “What are you doin’ out here?”

“It’s not what you—” Fedya began.

“You don’t know any of these folks.” Beltrane bared his stained teeth. “So you don’t
really care if they die.”

“Mikey,” Fedya murmured. “Go back to the hospital.”

Mikey would fetch Ethan. His brother would put a stop to whatever this was. He’d helped
so many people in Castle Thunder—guards, prisoners, Yankee and Reb. Even Commandant
Callahan liked Ethan. Ethan had cured the sores in the man’s mouth.

Mikey turned; two guards blocked his path.

“He should return to his brother,” Fedya said.

“He will.” Beltrane chuckled. “Maybe.”

“Just set another can on that deserter.” Fedya took several steps closer to the far
wall. “I’ll move over here.”

The gunshot was so loud, Fedya cried out and Mikey gasped. Blood bloomed on the Confederate
kid’s gray coat, and he collapsed to the ground.

“You don’t need a new can.” Beltrane’s pistol was still smoking from the bullet he’d
fired, but he tucked it into his belt next to the whip. “What you need is a new pedestal.”

The guards marched Mikey toward the wall.

“No!” Fedya shouted.

Beltrane’s whip cracked. Mikey tensed, prepared to pull free and save his friend.
But the sharp sting of the lash erupted across his own back. He didn’t mean to cry
out, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Don’t budge,” Beltrane said. Mikey didn’t plan to. Every movement made the pain burn
deeper.

“Or what?” Fedya asked. “You’ll whip me?”

The guard laughed. “Of course not.”

The sound of the lash came again; this time Mikey was prepared. It still hurt more
than anything else ever had. He didn’t mean to cry out again, but he did.

“Stop,” Fedya said.

“No,” Beltrane answered, and the whip cracked.

“What do you want?”

“The same thing I’ve always wanted,” Beltrane said. “Some goddamn entertainment.”

The guards shoved Mikey against the wall. They set a much smaller can upon his head.

“No,” Fedya begged. “Please, just . . . No.”

Beltrane flipped his hand as if swatting a bug. The men—four instead of the previous
two in deference to Mikey’s height and breadth—spun him around. The can flew sideways,
bouncing against the brick wall with a tinny clack. The guards tore off his shirt.
The air cooled the blood that ran from the open wounds on his back, making Mikey shiver.

“Either shoot the can,” Beltrane said in a voice that chilled Mikey even more, “or
I’ll peel every last bit of skin from his bones. Your choice.”

Fedya must have agreed, because the guards twirled Mikey around again. His back was
to the wall, with the can perched atop his head once more. The man doing the perching
had to stand on his tiptoes to manage it. Mikey was tempted to shake his head, toss
the thing to the ground, and stomp on it. But his shoulders—burning, bleeding—reminded
him of what would happen if he did. Besides, this was Fedya. He never missed. Even
with the rifle they’d given him—a muzzleloader, so long and heavy—Mikey didn’t believe
Fedya would miss now.

Mikey met Fedya’s eyes, trying to tell him without words that he trusted him; he could
do this. Fedya paled and bobbled the gun.

Mikey stood taller and threw back his shoulders, holding steady. They handed Fedya
a bullet; he loaded the gun. Were his fingers trembling? No. It didn’t matter that
the gun was not his own. Fedya was the best of the best.

Lifting the weapon, Fedya sighted down the barrel. Mikey held his breath. This would
be over in an instant, and they could go back to Ethan with a new story to tell.

Mikey frowned. They should keep this one to themselves. Though Mikey didn’t like to
have secrets from Ethan, he didn’t want him upset either. Maybe he and Fedya would
make it their secret. It would bind them together like Alexi and Mikhail Romanov,
the brothers they’d pretended to be in one of Fedya’s recent make-believes.

“Shoot,” Beltane ordered. “Now. Do it.”

Still Fedya hesitated. Was he hoping that Ethan would come looking for Mikey? It was
too soon for that. Even if he did, would Ethan be able to stop this?

The avid sparkle in the guards’ eyes told the truth. Nothing would stop this. When
the guards played their games, they played until
they
won. The longer Fedya succeeded, the longer he would have to play, until sooner or
later one of his pedestals would—