Prologue

near Manassas, Virginia

October 1862

Wade fought the urge to simply close his eyes.

Around him, men screamed as artillery fire tore through wood and flesh, and rifles roared. Smoke choked the air, thick with the metallic tang of blood and burnt powder.

Wade slammed his shoulder against the packed earth of the trench wall, the impact vibrating up his spine. Soil rained down from the embankment above.

We’re losing.

Every man in the ragged Confederate line knew it.

Union blue swarmed the ridge ahead, pushing forward with relentless momentum. The enemy had caught Wade’s unit flat-footed, pinning them down in the meager defenses of the temporary Confederate base. Now, whether they’d survive had become a minute-to-minute wager.

A shell shrieked overhead, and Wade ducked as it exploded behind him with a concussive boom.

He risked a glance to his left. Sammie, his younger brother, pressed in tight beside him. Across the trench, barely visible through the swirling haze, his brother-in-law, Jonathan, took potshots over the embankment.

Sammie wiped his sweat-streaked brow. “Can’t hold here, Wade!”

Wade nodded as he scanned the broken terrain. Splintered trees clawed at the bruised sky like skeletal fingers. The ground had churned into mud, shattered rock, and bodies. Then, he spotted the bony remains of a stone outbuilding, maybe a hundred yards back. It offered little protection—especially against cannon fire—but it would be better shelter than this exposed trench.

He leaned closer to Sammie. “We need to make for that shack!”

Ducking across the trench, Jonathan joined them. “That’s crazy—we won’t make it five feet!”

“Staying here is suicide!” Wade pulled himself up to gauge the enemy fire. It came in heavily, but sporadic bursts offered slim windows. “Wait for a lull!”

The trio hunkered down, Wade’s mouth going dry as the frantic symphony of war played its deadly tune around them. Someone screamed, then abruptly went silent. Suddenly, gunfire intensified off to their right, giving Wade and his group a reprieve.

“Now!” Wade shoved Sammie forward.

They scrambled from the trench, staying low, pumping legs driving them forward. Wade ran his palm over his close-cropped hair, grit grinding against his scalp. Mud sprayed from their boots with every desperate stride as rifles opened fire on their position. Bullets whizzed past Wade’s ears and thudded into the ground near his feet, kicking up geysers of dirt.

Jonathan whizzed ahead of Wade in a blur of gray.

Crack!

Skull bursting open with a spurt of blood, Jonathan’s momentum carried him forward for half a step; his arms flung out before he collapsed like a broken doll, face down in the muck.

No—!

Wade’s gut twisted, a scream freezing in his throat. He wanted to stop, to drag Jonathan’s body with them, but Sammie was running beside him. He couldn’t slow down for even a second. Guilt would have to come later. Thoughts of how he should’ve been faster. How he’d made a mistake, and they should’ve stayed in that trench. As long as he—

Crack!

Abruptly, Sammie staggered, clutching his side. Then, with a strangled gasp, he fell to his knees.

Wade lunged. Wrapping an arm around Sammie’s chest, Wade dragged him the last few feet toward the shack, then collapsed into the gloomy interior. The musty smell of damp earth and decay rose from rotting floorboards. A weak shaft of light pierced the roof, illuminating rising swirls of dust.

Wade fought back a sneeze as the fine motes danced lazily, disturbed by their entry, then knelt and eased his little brother to the floor.

Sammie’s breathing faltered, the color draining from his face. A dark, wet stain spread rapidly across his side.

This is bad.

The pallor, the way Sammie’s eyelids fluttered, and the tremor in his limbs revealed one inescapable truth: Wade’s brother was dying.

“Sammie.” Fingers trembling despite his best effort to keep them steady, Wade pushed Sammie’s sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. “Stay with me, Sammie.”

Blood pooled beneath Sammie, spreading rapidly. Gaping, he fumbled for Wade’s arm. “Wade—told you … we—couldn’t …”

“Shh. Just hold on.” Wade forced the lump in his throat down. “Stay with me.”

Wade had no idea what he was asking Sammie to hold on to. He could do nothing. No bandages. No doctor. No hope.

Just blood.

“Wade …” Sammie’s grip tightened. “I miss Abbie …”

Moisture blurring his vision, Wade nodded. “She misses you too.”

“Mama’s pies … Papa teaching me to ride …” A sigh escaped Sammie. “Always told me to—be strong … like you …”

“You are, Sammie. I swear, you are.”

“I’m sorry, Wade.” Sammie gasped, then winced. “I should’ve been faster—more like you—I should’ve protected them …”

“Please, don’t.” Wade pressed his lips together. “You were a child.”

Really, it had been Wade’s fault. Sammie had been too young to even understand what was happening. Wade had been the one to take Abbie to town, leaving their parents to fend for themselves.

Sammie’s eyelids sagged. “Jonathan …?”

“He’s all right, Sammie.” Wade squeezed his brother’s hand. “He’s keepin’ watch outside.”

“I’m glad.” Sammie nodded slowly. “I’d hate for Abbie to—to lose him, too …”

Wade stared at Sammie’s face, burning every detail to memory, as Sammie’s chest moved more slowly with each shallow rise and fall. The freckles scattered across his nose, his lopsided smile … the light rapidly fading from his irises.

Sammie’s grip grew slack. With a soft sigh, the air left his lungs one last time as he stared, unseeing, at the dusty ceiling.

As the battle raged outside, Wade knelt in the gloom, clutching Sammie’s lifeless knuckles. Jonathan and Sammie. Two-thirds of Wade’s family, gone in the span of minutes. Abbie would be shattered.

After his parents had died, Wade had taken an oath to protect everyone, and he’d just failed. He hadn’t been strong enough. He hadn’t been fast enough.

He hadn’t been enough.

Chapter One

Outside, the sound of gunfire shifted, moving away from the shack.

A lull, or a retreat?

It didn’t matter. Whatever happened next, Sammie’s skin would still go cold. The metallic scent of his blood would forever linger in Wade’s nose. Wade would stand up and leave, but his mind would always return here, to this moment.

He ran a hand over his face, the stubble of a few days’ neglect scratching his palm. His jaw ached. His worn buckskin tunic, already stained with mud and sweat, now bore a damning mark of crimson.

I have to bury them.

No matter the danger, he couldn’t leave them here for scavengers to find—whether the four- or two-legged variety.

As Wade pushed himself to his feet, his right leg protested with a dull throb—a souvenir from a Yankee bayonet near Manassas. He went to the doorway and peered out cautiously. The immediate area had cleared.

It took him the better part of an hour, an eternity of gritted teeth and burning muscles, to drag them both back to the Confederate lines—or what remained of them. Moving under the sporadic crack of distant rifles, he eventually laid the bodies side by side behind a shattered caisson. Fellow soldiers hurried past him, avoiding his eyes, none offering to help.

He found a broken spade near an abandoned gun emplacement and began to dig. The ground, packed hard by wagons and artillery, resisted every thrust. Sweat poured down his face as each scoop of earth reminded him of his failure.

This is all I can do for you now. A shallow hole in foreign soil.

Pa had taught Wade that a man’s worth lay in what he built and the family he gathered. What would Pa think of him now, burying his brothers in a war-torn field?

By the time he’d finished, twilight painted the sky in bruised purples and reds. Two crude mounds marked Sammie’s and Jonathan’s passing. He said a short prayer and walked away, his chest hollow.

***

The days that followed passed in a blur of forced marches, skirmishes, and the gnawing emptiness of grief. The Confederate forces fell into disarray, always retreating, ceding ground.

Wade moved with no true purpose. Cleaning his rifle, eating his meager rations, and sleeping fitfully under the stars. His rage simmered and grew with every glimpse of a blue uniform, every distant cheer from Union lines.

The days bled into a gray miasma of restive trudging and uneasy rest.

His unit—or what remained of it—operated with fraying discipline. Men straggled and often ignored orders, while officers mainly concerned themselves with putting distance between themselves and the advancing Federals.

This chaos became Wade’s opportunity. He would never desert, of course. But he drifted.

Whenever they camped for a few fitful hours of darkness, he didn’t huddle with the others around sputtering fires. Instead, he’d find a rise, a dense copse of trees at the perimeter, some forgotten trench. There, he’d lie still for hours, the chill of damp ground seeping into his bones, his worn patchwork of scavenged hides and old Confederate issue melting into the shadows.

The enemy often came close, sometimes uncomfortably so, their outriders probing the Confederate rear.

From his concealed vantage points, Wade watched these blue-clad horsemen. Patrols, supply routes, the rhythm of enemy movements. He’d lie on his belly for hours on the edge of a tree line, his battered hat pulled low, ignoring his empty stomach.

He learned their routines.

The Union column’s supply line ran through a narrow, wooded canyon about five miles north of the current Confederate position. Wagons full of ammunition and provisions trundled through it twice a day.

As he scratched at the rough, untrimmed beard creeping over the scar on his jawline—another memento, this one from a bar fight long before the war, a lifetime ago—a plan began to form in his mind: if he could sever that line, his unit’s situation might turn. It wouldn’t bring Sammie or Jonathan back—he knew that—but it didn’t matter. He had to make them pay.

He sketched a crude map on a piece of scavenged parchment and took it to Captain Mallory. The gaunt man’s eyes had a haunted look, like he’d seen too much killing and not enough victory. Lantern light casting long shadows across his face, he sat hunched over the crate that served as his desk.

Wade saluted him. “Captain? Got somethin’ you oughtta see.”

“What?”

“Been keepin’ an eye on that Yankee supply train. Cuts right through Blackwood Canyon.” Wade laid the map down and tapped the route. “We get ourselves some blastin’ powder, hit ’em in there, we could do ’em a powerful hurt.”

Looking up tiredly, Captain Mallory took the map and studied it.

“Carter, we’re hanging on by a thread as it is.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Ain’t got the men to spare for some damn fool notion like that—and just where d’you reckon you’re gonna rustle up this blasting powder?”

“Scouted out where them bluebellies stashed a bit. Ain’t watched too close. They use it for clearin’ roads, but—‍”

“Too risky, Carter.” Captain Mallory pushed the map back across the crate. “Why don’t you just admit that this is a personal score you’re lookin’ to settle? I know you lost your folk—hell, most of us have—but we can’t let grief run this war. We must save what strength we have left and bide our time for a real opportunity.”

“This is the opportunity, Captain!” Hands flat on the crate, Wade leaned forward. The subtle tremor in his fingers betrayed the rage he was trying so hard to contain. “We make ’em bleed, slow ’em down. Give our boys a chance to catch their breath, maybe even regroup.”

The captain shook his head. “I admire your sand, Carter—I truly do—but I can’t sanction it. Our orders are clear: hold the line. That’s it.”

He looked back down at his papers, clearly dismissing Wade.

Wade snatched up his map, the charcoal smudging under his fingers, then nodded and walked out of the tent. The captain’s refusal was just another log on the fire. Those “orders” he spoke of had only led to defeat after defeat.

They’d gotten Sammie and Jonathan killed.

No, Wade was done with orders and waiting for opportunities that never came. If they wouldn’t act, Wade would.

***

That night, under the cloak of a moonless sky, Wade made his way to the Yankee camp—which had once again crept up to the Confederate unit’s behind—like a phantom. The old wound in his right leg ached dully, but he pushed it from his mind. With movements honed by years of hunting in the Nevada hills, he slipped past dozing sentries.

The engineers’ depot lay within a cluster of hastily erected tents and haphazard stacks of crates. Locating the blasting powder proved easy enough—two small kegs, tucked beneath a canvas sheet, just as he’d anticipated. Heavy, but manageable. A coil of fuse and a tin of blasting caps also lay nearby.

Once he was clear of the enemy camp, he retrieved Buck, his rangy roan gelding. He secured the fuse and caps in his saddlebags, slung one keg over his shoulder, and tucked the other under his arm.

A strange calm settled over Wade, the sharp clarity of a man who’d made his decision and accepted the consequences. This was his path now. Alone. He was always meant to be alone. He rode north, keeping to the shadows of the trees. Buck’s hooves made little sound on the soft pine needles. The crisp air carried the scent of disturbed earth and wood smoke.

An hour before dawn, Wade reached Blackwood Canyon. The defile narrowed here, its sides steep and rocky, choked with dense undergrowth. Below, the trail barely allowed for two wagons to pass abreast.

Perfect.

Tethering Buck in a dense thicket well off the trail, Wade set to work. He chose his spot with care: a section of unstable canyon wall, where loose scree and earth clung precariously. Using his knife and a sharpened stick, he dug into the base of this slope, hollowing out spaces for the powder kegs. The labor progressed slowly, demanding painstaking effort to avoid dislodging the slope prematurely.

Once the cavities were ready, the powder set, he packed earth back around the kegs. Then, he ran the fuse, burying it shallowly up the canyon side to a sheltered spot among a jumble of boulders. The location offered a good vantage point and a clear line of sight.

Wade ran a hand over his beard, scratching his chin. The pre-dawn chill bit sharply, and he thought longingly of his angora chaps, though they suited deep winter more than this late autumn nip. Still, the goat hair would’ve felt welcome against the cold seeping from the stone.

As the first pale light filtered through the trees, he settled in to wait. Checking the percussion caps on his Colt, he laid the pistol beside him. The forest stirred awake around him, early birds chirping, small creatures rustling in the undergrowth. However, Wade tuned his senses for a different melody: the rumble of wagon wheels, the jingle of harness and tack, the voices of men.

As Wade cooled his heels, his thoughts drifted to his sister, Abbie. She’d lost her parents, and now, her husband as well. He pushed the thought away. He couldn’t afford to dwell on her, on the pain he might cause.

This wasn’t about him—not anymore. This act served Sammie. Jonathan. The hurt they’d left behind.

An hour passed, then another. The sun climbed, dappling the canyon floor with shifting patterns of brilliance and shadow. Wade remained motionless, part of the landscape, his gray eyes practically piercing the canyon’s northern end. Patience, for him, constituted a well-honed tool. He could wait days if necessary.

Finally, a faint rumble reached him, growing steadily louder. The clatter of hooves, the creak of axles, the low murmur of voices. He leaned forward, his body taut.

A pair of mounted scouts appeared first, their blue uniforms stark against the forest’s green and brown. Casually, they rode, rifles slung across their saddles, unaware of the death hidden in the earth beneath them. Behind them, sturdy mules pulled six wagons, their canvas tops bulging. Perhaps a dozen mounted soldiers rode alongside; not a heavy guard, but enough to deter casual raiders.

They advanced well into the kill zone, directly below the unstable slope.

Wade took a steadying breath. One hand, rock-steady, grasped the fuse as he held a match to its frayed end. The fuse caught, sputtered, then began to burn with a small, steady hiss.

He watched the tiny flame eat its way along the slow serpent of destruction. Thirty seconds, perhaps. Picking up his Colt, he inspected the scene below. The lead wagon had almost passed the point he’d judged as the blast’s center.

Time seemed to slow. The expression on one driver’s face came into focus: a young man—barely more than a boy—yawning as he flicked the reins. A soldier laughed at some unheard joke.

For a fleeting moment, they weren’t the enemy, just men.

Then, Sammie’s lifeless face flashed in Wade’s mind, extinguishing the brief flicker of shared humanity.

Wade braced himself as the fuse disappeared into the earth.

The explosion ripped through the morning with a monstrous, deafening roar. The ground bucked beneath him. From the side of the canyon, a geyser of earth, rock, and splintered wood erupted. The unstable slope gave way with a sickening groan, sending a landslide of debris crashing down.

Obliterated, the lead wagons vanished, horses and men tossed like rag dolls. A choking cloud of dust and smoke filled the air, punctuated by the screams of wounded men and animals. Soldiers scrambled for cover, firing blindly into the haze. Maddened with terror, mules kicked and brayed, tangling their harness.

Cooly, Wade observed the devastation from his vantage point. The canyon lay completely blocked. At least three wagons had been destroyed, their burning contents scattered and crushed. The Union soldiers fell into disarray, their morning routine dismantled, then reformed into a bloody nightmare.

Wade felt … nothing—no elation, no satisfaction—just a vast, cold void. He had accomplished his task. He’d struck a blow. He’d made them pay. But Sammie remained dead. Jonathan remained dead.

And the war, Wade understood with a chilling conviction, would go on.

As the dust began to settle and the surviving Yankees regrouped, pulling their wounded from the wreckage, Wade slipped away. He melted back into the trees, a wraith leaving a scene of carnage behind. His body ached even more now, yet he moved with grim purpose.

A long ride lay ahead.