Betrayals

A/N: A bit more borrowed from “Palms of Glory” and “Boots With My Father’s Name”


Heath protested at Jarrod’s insistence that he ride in the wagon, but if he had to be truthful, he was a bit relieved to be sitting on the hard bench rather than trying to ride. His shoulder wasn’t quite up to holding the reins any longer and the exhaustion of the previous day was still taking its toll.

He cursed himself for his weakness in revealing parts of his past, things he never wanted others to know. He’d done his best to try and erase those events from his mind, but the demons were always there, lurking just beneath his consciousness, ready to leap out at the merest opportunity.

There’d been ample opportunity of late; his injury, the death of his beloved Gal, followed by what happened with Nick in the line shack. Heath took a deep breath, trying to relieve some of the tension building in his gut. As they drove along in silence, bits of the conversation from last night continued to come back to him.

I was wrong; I shouldn’t have touched you like that without coming right out and asking

I trust him with my life

I only wanted to be there for you, to try and make things better, to show you how much I cared

Nick may be loud, obnoxious, self-centred and overbearing but I’ve known him all his life and he’d never hurt anyone or anything unless it’s to protect something he loves

Heath, if you didn’t want me to… do what I did, why didn’t you say something? Ask me to stop?

It was the last that gave him the most pause. Why hadn’t he said something? He could’ve told Nick to stop. He could’ve tried to fight, to run, but he’d just lain there, letting Nick touch him, letting himself respond to those touches. They were the same acts, but still so different from the pawings of his uncle and the brutality of the guards in Carterson.

What was it Jarrod had said? If a relationship is based on mutual love and support, how can it be wrong. If the intentions are good and no one is hurt, where’s the harm. Heath thought about that. The only relationship he’d ever had that even came close was that with his mama. Even then, although there was the mutual love and support, there was an undercurrent of bitterness as well. Heath remembered how many times he’d asked; no, demanded; that his mama tell him who his father was. He’d even accused her of not knowing more than once, much to his later regret. He knew Leah Thomson was a good woman and knew she likely had the best of intentions in keeping his father’s identity secret, but those intentions had caused a world of hurt.

Heath glanced over at the man driving the wagon, not sure how to ask if Jarrod really believed what he had said and realized his companion was speaking.

“I had a friend who was in Andersonville,” Jarrod was saying. “We met when I went to college. Actually, Dave and I stayed at the same lodgings that first year until the war started.”

Heath didn’t say anything, but Jarrod didn’t seem to expect any replies.

“We were so fired up back then,” Jarrod continued, an almost wistful look on his face. “We both signed up with the first wave of volunteers. Fighting for the stability of the Union and against the oppression of slavery, it seemed the right thing to do. Looking back, if we knew then what was going to happen… well, I still would have enlisted, but not with the same eagerness I had back then. I ended up in the New York 9th Cavalry and Dave was assigned to Hooker’s regiment. I didn’t see him again until the end of the war.”

Jarrod stopped talking and Heath glanced over, noting the faintly haunted look in the other man’s eyes. He looked up the road to the back of Nick on his dark chestnut ahead of them, and then refocused his attention when Jarrod started speaking again.

“I’d been transferred to Washington near the end of the war, serving in the war department, when I came across a list of wounded from somewhere south of Charleston. Nick’s name was on it. Can you believe no one had thought to tell me that my younger brother ran away from home and enlisted?” Jarrod shook his head and Heath could see the disquiet on his face. “Our father blamed me, said if I’d still been at home, I wouldn’t have signed up and Nick wouldn’t have felt he had to follow. He didn’t understand I would have joined anyway.”

Heath thought about his reasons for leaving home and joining the army. Not for any lofty ideals, like Jarrod, and not to follow his big brother, like Nick. Heath closed his eyes. If he’d had a big brother like Jarrod, or even Nick, he probably would have followed him, too. But instead, Heath left home to get away, away from the groping hands of his uncle and the squalor that had become the town of Strawberry after the mine played out. His only noble thought was of the money he’d be able to send to his mama, that maybe she’d have enough to leave too, but she never did.

“I begged, borrowed and stole any way I could to get down to that hospital. I would have deserted if they hadn’t given me leave. When I found Nick, I thanked God the bullet wound hadn’t required his leg be cut off. That was when I saw Dave.” Heath heard the breath catch in Jarrod’s throat. “He was practically a skeleton. I was surprised he was even able to walk, let alone escape Andersonville and make it all those miles north. And when I saw his back…” Jarrod shuddered and finally looked over at Heath, empathy and regret in his blue eyes. “I won’t pretend to understand what happened to you, Heath. I don’t think any man who didn’t live through it could even come close to comprehending. But you have to know I’d give anything if I could go back and keep it from taking place.”

“You don’t even know me, Jarrod,” Heath said quietly.

“I know enough,” Jarrod replied, returning his gaze to the road ahead, returning to the earlier silence for a few minutes.

“So you’re going to visit your mother in Strawberry?” Jarrod eventually asked. “What’s she like?”

The thought of his mother brought a faint smile to Heath’s face. In spite of their ongoing conflict about the identity of his father, Heath truly loved her and thanked God every day for the sweet woman who was his mama.

“She’s beautiful, warm, and soft, and in a way, very strong. I’ve always thought of her as an angel, ‘specially considering what she had to put up with from me.”

“And your father?”

Heath shot Jarrod a sharp look.

“Never knew him. Mama, she was left to her own when her husband got liquored up and drown in some stinking creek.” Heath’s eyes grew hard. “Until he came. He lay with her, and then he left her, alone and with child. My mama never once told me his name and I ain’t never been sure who she was protecting, him, me or herself.”

“I’m sorry, Heath.” Heath was surprised at the sincerity in Jarrod’s voice. “No reason was good enough for your father to abandon you and your mother like that.”

Nick reined up ahead of them. “Signpost here,” he informed them when they caught up. “Strawberry’s just a couple miles.”

Heath nodded. “There’ll be a fork in the road about half a mile up. We’ll take the left, it’ll bring us to Mama’s without having to go through town.”

Neither of his companions questioned why he didn’t want to go through town. They took the left turn down a narrow track and soon pulled in front of a small green cabin with a picket fence. The paint was faded and traces of white could still be seen on the fence’s weathered slats. There were more signs the place hadn’t been upkept very well in the last little while; a broken board on the step, weeds encroaching on the small garden plot to the side. Beyond the house was the town of Strawberry, the buildings that could be seen having fallen into even greater disrepair than the house. It felt like a ghost town.

Heath ignored Jarrod’s offered hand and slowly climbed down from the wagon. He didn’t like the stillness, the almost oppressive atmosphere that surrounded his childhood home.

“Mama?” he called, walking towards the porch. “Aunt Hannah?”

The front door creaked open and a small, weathered black woman came onto the porch. “Heath,” she said with a bittersweet smile, “My boy, Heath. I knew the Lord would send you before it too late.” She walked up to him, arms extended and Heath embraced her hesitantly.

“What do you mean, Aunt Hannah? Before it’s too late for what?”

Hannah’s eyes grew sad. “Miss Leah, Heath, your mama. She been sick, she dying. But she been holding on to see you before she passes.”

“No.” The strangled whisper escaped Heath’s lips. No, not his mama, the brightest ray of sunshine in his life. He pushed pashed Hannah, into the cabin, going straight through the front room, past the old sofa with the bad springs, past the rickety wooden table that he’d built out of scrap lumber before he left for the war. He pushed open the door to the bedroom and tears welled up in his eyes as he saw the ashen figure lying on the bed. Never a large woman, Leah Thomson looked even smaller against the pillow, almost transparent as though she wasn’t completely of this world anymore.

“Mama,” he whispered, kneeling at her bedside and taking the small, frail hand in his own.

Her eyes blinked open, their soft grey dull and lacklustre.

“Heath?” Her voice was barely audible, but Heath could still hear the beautiful tone that had soothed away many a nightmare in the past. “Heath, sweetheart, you’re here.”

“I’m here, Mama,” he said softly, struggling to keep the anguish from his voice.

“Oh, I love you, my sweet boy.”

“I love you, too, Mama.” Heath almost choked on the words.

Leah struggled to sit up and Heath helped her, tenderly placing the worn pillow at her back. “Heath, there’s something… I need to tell you,” she said, her voice soft and halting. “Something… I can’t take to my grave.”

Heath blinked back the tears. “Don’t talk like that, Mama,” he begged.

“It’s my time, son,” she responded weakly. “But get my Bible… in the box…”

Heath gently set her hand on the faded quilt and went to the corner where the box that his mama kept her prized possessions in resided. He pulled out the old leather bound Bible and tried to hand it to her.

“Turn to the back… to the last page…”

Heath did as she requested and a piece of paper fluttered out.

“Your father, Heath,” came the whisper from the bed, “Tom…”

Heath bent down and picked up the paper. It was a newspaper clipping, dated three years before. The headline read, “TOM BARKLEY SHOT TO DEATH,” and under that, in smaller letters, “WHOLE VALLEY MOURNS”.

Heath turned to his mother and the questions died on his lips when he saw the light had gone out of her eyes.

“Mama?” he whispered, dropping the clipping. He sat on the edge of the bed and cradled her frail body in his arms. “Oh, Mama, no, you can’t leave me. I love you, Mama, I love you.”

Heath broke down, weeping unashamedly against the lifeless body of his mother as he rocked her gently in his arms.