Hero for Christmas Read online

  Nick carefully clicked open the catch. Wonder settled in the depths of his ocean blue eyes. "And as long as we believe," he whispered, and handed her the watch.

  The familiar inscription from the past was gone. In its place, brightly shining as a new promise to them both, read the fresh golden engraving:

  Through Him, all things are possible.

  The End

  Homecoming

  A holiday skirmish sends Union officer, Jack Durham, on an unlikely mission to fulfill his promise of honor to a dying Confederate soldier—his enemy. In an odd twist of fate, a simple assurance to carry young Billy Anderson's meager belongings home to his family a few miles away becomes more than what it seems.

  As he nears his destination, the memories of the soldier's final moments mingle with his own thoughts of the losses he's suffered because of the War, including his fiancee, Sarah. Despite his suffering, can Jack remember what it means to be fully human before he arrives at the end of his journey? Will the miracle of Christmas be able to heal his heart in the face of what awaits him?

  Chapter One

  It was an odd journey he'd undertaken, Jack Durham thought. Still, he was set on doing it. He'd promised, and God only knew why. And, he figured, God only knew the reason he should feel so—beholden—to do what he'd started—to find the young Confederate soldier's people. He certainly had no idea.

  The boy had been nothing to him, really. Now, here he was, carrying that Johnny Reb's effects back to his family, as if it were his own sworn obligation or something. It made him angry at himself; as if maybe—he was betraying his own.

  Union officers such as himself, well, they didn't go carrying the enemy's personal effects back home to their family. For all he knew, Billy Anderson, the deceased, might have been the one who put the killing bullet through any number of Union soldiers who held the line beside him—before a bullet had taken Billy, himself. And, Major Jack Durham hated to admit, that fatal shot might have come from his own pistol. There had been some close fighting. It was how he'd happened to see Billy, as the smoke cleared.

  He'd lost his horse, had it shot out from under him. He decided to walk the few miles to the Anderson homestead. Billy told him where it was, just the night before, on Christmas Eve.

  Jack looked down at his blue wool coat sleeve. It was stained dark with blood. His chest was, too, where he'd held Billy those last few moments before he died. His jacket was stiff with it. His steps slowed as he remembered the way the light in Billy's eyes had finally guttered like a flame in the wind, and then gone out. He'd looked up at Jack with a trust that, even though he wore enemy colors, he would do the right thing. This thing he had promised—it seemed to ease young Billy's mind at the last, allowed him to give one last boyish grin before he faded.

  Jack Durham cursed himself for a fool, resuming his pace. The battle had been won there at Johnson's Creek. It had been long, exhausting, and the ground was slippery with the blood of both armies—the blood of men, he corrected mentally. He tucked the small pack under his arm. It wasn't much. A man's life, wrapped up in a blanket, tied with his belt, and held securely in a one-foot square bundle. What an ironic gift, right here on Christmas. He shook his head. He'd be lucky to get away from there without getting shot, wearing enemy colors, bringing their dead son's personal effects home, right up to the door.

  He already knew what the package contained. Billy's camp gear—his tin plate and cup and a fork, a packet of letters from home, a picture of his family—a younger brother and sister, mother, father, and himself, made not long before The War Between the States, as the Southerners called it; a comb, and a Bible.

  Jack snorted in disgust. Billy had been not much more than a boy. According to the entry in the Bible, he'd have been seventeen in a few days—on December thirty-first. He'd spent his last Christmas in hell, Jack thought cynically, with few rations, poor uniform shoes, away from all he held dear. Ten miles away.

  Chapter Two

  There was an unexpected shot of pain in his heart, as he thought of it, and it surprised him. He was not a sentimental man, and these last three years of war had taken every bit of his human side; scraped it away and made him forget it ever existed. Except…except the thought of the woman he'd loved in a life far removed. He tried, unsuccessfully, to put thoughts of Sarah away, but as always, they burgeoned their way through. His heart held her memory tightly and there was no way to escape it. God knew, he'd tried.

  Sarah had been meant for him. To put it into words sounded silly, and he wasn't emotional, usually. Unless, it came to Sarah. Before he'd left to join the Union Army, she'd done something that had branded her his for all time. Knowing he was leaving, that he might never come home, she'd begged him to marry her. But he'd stood on propriety, for her sake. And when she saw that no amount of pleading would change his mind, she'd looked right into his soul with her green eyes blazing and asked him to bed her before he left. At first, he wasn't sure he'd understood correctly. They'd been sitting outside in the cool of the evening, barely a month after the War had begun. They were alone in the garden, and Sarah had looked up at him, her face so trusting.

  "Jack, I want you," she'd said.

  He remembered how his lips had curved up, thinking she didn't understand the phrase she'd just uttered. "You've got me."

  "No. I'm telling you, before you leave…I—I want you. In my bed." She looked down, then forced her gaze back up, looking him directly in the eyes again, so that there would be no mistake. "I want you to make love to me." Then she'd leaned toward him, pulled him to her, and kissed him, suckling at his lower lip. Her fingers twined in his short hair, their tongues mating hotly. His body responded. He was hard, aching for her.

  "Sarah—I—"

  The rush of adrenaline had shot through him at her determined tone. As if it had taken every ounce of her courage to say what she wanted to say, and to trust that he wouldn't turn away from her in disgust at her forwardness.

  How could he tell her that to him, she'd never be forward? She'd never say the wrong thing, because she was so perfect? And because of that, he could never sleep with her before they were married.

  He shook his head in refusal, and saw the hurt overtake the determination in her face. "I won't shame you like that." Honor and duty were the two most important things. Weren't they? He looked at her closely, reading her as easily as he'd always been able to do. In her eyes, he saw that love was the most important thing, beyond honor. Beyond duty. Beyond anything else. And he was refusing her. "Sarah, when we lie together I want it to be as man and wife."

  "Then marry me. Everyone else is marrying quickly."

  "Are you saying you won't wait for me?"

  She shook her head and looked away, defeated, by the slump of her shoulders. "No. I have no choice but to wait. Even if it's for Eternity. I know you'll come for me. Nothing will ever change that, darling. I'll love you forever."

  The life they'd wanted so badly could never be, now. At least if he'd done things her way, there might have been a son or a daughter left behind, to give him some reason to want to live. As it was now, he had no need of compassion, or of humanity.

  Until this Christmas Eve. They had been camped so close to the Rebels they could hear snatches of conversation from each others' lines. From up and down the encampments, the plaintive sounds of harmonicas and of quiet singing could be discerned; Christmas carols, all desperately lonely.

  Then, at one point, the voices and harmonicas began to blend, to become one vast and lovely ensemble of the same music. First, Silent Night; then Adeste Fidelis; and O', Little Town of Bethlehem. It just seemed to happen, with no planning or talk, as if for that one sweet evening there would be a miracle—that of peace on Earth.

  "Got some good Tennessee whiskey over here," a voice called into the darkness, as the singing died away. "I might be inclined to trade for some pipe tobacco."

  There was silence, a collective breath-holding that roared. The air was thick and heavy; then a deep barit
one responded, "How full's that bottle, Reb?" and the tension melted; magic in those lovely, low-toned words.

  "Half a bottle for half a pack." There was a smile in his voice this time, and in the Union soldier's response.

  "I'll meet you mid-way, then." There was a lifetime of experience, of knowing men in that statement. Swift action followed, as Jack Durham watched his fellow Union officer come to his feet, his tobacco in hand. He headed into the clearing that separated the two armies. There was no fear, no hesitance in his stride; for how could there be death and trickery on this, of all nights—Christmas Eve? Even Jack was forced to concede that, for tonight at least, they were all men—wishing they were anywhere but here.

  Every eye was on the moonlit clearing where the two men, one dressed in blue, one wearing gray, met—and made their exchange. Other swaps followed, and somehow, under the cover of darkness, the colors of the uniforms and the rank of the insignias all fell away. All were equal, and the tentative friendliness became bolder as the minutes, then the hours, ticked by.

  Chapter Three

  It was in that patch of enchanted forest Jack Durham met Billy Anderson.

  Billy had been sitting alone, watching the trades and the easy talk between the soldiers who would be killing one another the day after tomorrow. Jack was struck by how young Billy looked; like a kid, really, he thought, dressed up to play soldier. But this was no game. There would be bloody days ahead of them, and soon. Something about Billy's demeanor drew Jack to him, and he hunkered down beside him in the field.

  "I ain't got nothin' to trade," Billy said, glancing at Jack quickly.

  "Me neither." Jack's lips lifted in a slight smile. This boy was scared. No need. He reminded Jack of his own younger brother, Silas. "Thought maybe to trade some conversation."

  Billy gave him an appraising look, then put his hand out. "I'm Billy Anderson."

  Jack took his hand and shook. "Georgia boy, huh?"

  Billy nodded. "Yessir. Just from right down the road there, apiece. Monroeville. I'm only 'bout ten miles from home." This last was said with a small edge of wistfulness that youth could not banish, not completely.

  "I bet you're thinking about your mama's apple pie, aren't you?"

  Billy bobbed his head and gave a shy grin. "That was my favorite. An' my mama, she made the best apple pie of anybody. Right now they're probably tryin' to have Christmas the best they can."

  Jack nodded, his own memories filling him with a surge of wistful longing that was unfamiliar. "My mother made apple pie, too. Funny, how some things are the same no matter where you're from."

  Billy nodded. "Apple pie and Christmas presents."

  "And candles," Jack remembered. "Every window in our house was lit up with candles. Like stars in the darkest sky, calling you to come inside."

  "Sometimes I think it'd be better to be a hunnerd miles from here 'stead of only ten, you know?"

  Jack looked out at the men in the field, his memories of Christmases past imprinting themselves in his heart and mind as he thought of his own home in Pennsylvania. His mother and father, his brothers, and lastly, of his fiancée, Sarah Blaine. Influenza had taken her two years ago, before they could ever begin their lives together. It had been so wrong for her to be taken that way. She was the love of his life. He'd known that since the time they were young children. He thought of the irony, of how worried Sarah had been when he'd enlisted.

  "Don't get hurt, Jack," she'd implored. "I couldn't bear it if you . . .if you left me."

  In the end, she'd been the one to "leave." Every morning, he'd awoken with the same burning, aching hole where his heart had once been. It would never heal. Sarah had loved him more than he could ever have imagined. Now that she was gone, he understood. He'd lost his soul mate. It would be a blessing if he could somehow end this torture he was living through. And he didn't care how.

  Sometimes, God help him, he took chances in battle that he thought…hoped…might fix everything, and put him back where he belonged again. With Sarah.

  "I don't think I'll ever see them again," Billy blurted, bringing him back to the present. "My folks, I mean."

  Jack didn't answer for a long moment. It was no good to try to comfort the boy. Sometimes, those fears were founded. More times than not. He wondered why he'd been spared this far. Just lucky, he guessed. Yeah. Just lucky. He was a walking dead man, and maybe that's what made him invincible. He didn't fear death. In fact, he would welcome it as a way out of this hell.

  "You may not," he murmured finally. "But there's worse things."

  Billy looked at the ground, and Jack suspected he was trying to get control of his emotions before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was a near whisper, reverent and calm.

  "It's not far from here. It's the prettiest spot of land you've ever seen. All kinds of game, and the freshest little spring branch—not too far from the home place. Acres of good bottom land we've cleared—" Billy looked up at Jack. "It's a good place."

  "Sounds like it, son. Sounds like a piece of heaven."

  "It is. You'd be welcome there."

  Jack gave a chuckle. "That's kind of you to say, but—"

  Billy's eyes narrowed in genuine sincerity. "No, I mean it. You remember it, sir, if you get hurt. Straight down that road, yonder, and keep the river to your right. You'll know it when you see it." The reverence was in his tone again. "My folks—they're good people. You tell 'em I sent you."

  Jack's neck had prickled. It was almost as if Billy had known what was going to happen to him.

  Chapter Four

  And then, it had.

  Here he was now, traipsing down the longest ten miles he'd ever walked, with Billy's belongings all wrapped up to give his mama. Everything that was left of her dead boy was tied up neatly in this little one-foot square pouch. He'd tried to clean the Bible as best he could, but there was some of the blood that wouldn't come off. Jack thought of discarding it, understanding how that rusty stain would be a reminder forever of how the Andersons' young son had died—but what could ever erase that memory? The absence of the sight of Billy's blood would be no less painful than the loss of the Bible itself, he decided finally. And besides, he had promised. His thoughts wandered.

  The Bible had been of little comfort to Billy in the end, Jack thought. He gave a disdainful snort. He'd seen so much during this war that he had no faith left. What was there to believe in? Especially seeing youngsters like Billy Anderson shot to pieces, dying—while he, Jack Durham, continued on unscathed, a walking dead man with nothing to live for—and truthfully, nothing to die for in this life, either. How he wished this bloody war had never begun! All he wanted was Sarah. His Sarah. But peace could never be his; not with his duty overriding every other thing in his life. His mind returned to the recent battle of that day.

  The Union troops had the advantage, and were pressing it. They advanced steadily, but there was no victory in their hearts. All that had been taken out of them last night on Christmas Eve—when they'd spent those sparse hours as brothers, friends—and countrymen, even, with their enemy.

  Riding into that same clearing just this morning, Jack's horse, Charlie, had been shot out from under him. They'd gone down together in a blur of hooves and a spray of red. Charlie died instantly, and for that, Jack had been mightily relieved. He drug himself out from under the faithful animal, ignoring the pain in his chest, and found himself looking into the blue, blue eyes of Billy Anderson.

  The boy had been bleeding a river, his expression filled with pain. But he wasn't afraid, Jack could see. Did Billy know he was dying? Crawling the few feet to where Billy lay, he reached to lift the boy's head. He picked up the youngster's canteen and wiped the spattering of blood from its side before unscrewing the cap.

  "Here, son," he muttered, putting the sun-warmed metal to Billy's lips. The gratitude in his eyes made Jack's throat tighten. He moved to put himself closer to Billy, his arm going under the blood-soaked base of his neck.

  "You're bleedin', s
ir," Billy murmured, after drinking a long gulp from the canteen.

  Jack looked into the other man's face, puzzled for a moment at how Billy could even notice such a thing, as his own blood drained steadily away. Finally, Jack managed to shake it off dismissively. "My—My horse, Billy. It's his blood."

  Regret filtered through the azure eyes, at the death of an animal he had never seen before this moment, and again, Jack wondered. How could this soldier with the heart of a boy, the soul of a man, pause in his own death to take note of an animal's passing? It ripped away something inside Major Jack Durham, awakened a feeling that he thought had long since departed, and he wished it had kept itself absent. These feelings of returning humanity were only going to be troublesome to him in the remaining days of the war. Still, that regretful look in the boyish blue eyes haunted him, and he knew he would not free himself of his human-ness again, thanks to this young soldier.

  "Guess he and I might meet up, soon, Major," Billy said quietly. His lips quirked. "You think he'd object to a Georgia boy ridin' 'im?"

  Jack swallowed hard. "No, Billy. I think—he'd be honored. You take good care of him, son."

  Billy nodded, his lids closing briefly. Then, "Major—I know this is a lot to ask, but—my things... Will you see they get home to Ma and Pa? 'Specially the Bible."

  There was an odd look in Billy Anderson's face, and Jack studied it a moment. "What is it you're not telling me, boy?"

  Billy shook his head. "A trade, Major. You tell 'em I sent you. Remember how—how I told you to get there?"

  Jack Durham nodded slowly, puzzled at the boy's reminder of their earlier conversation.