A House Divided Against Itself

 

By: Kenda

 

 

 

 

This story was inspired by the aired episode, The Guilt of Matt Bentell.  To some extent, the story is built around the facts the episode gave us, while at the same time, the power of fiction has allowed me to create a ‘missing scene’ story to that episode.  The missing scene details what happened between the time Heath suffered the blow to his head in the lumber camp, and when he returned to the ranch.  This story starts where the aired episode ended – Matt and Lucinda Bentell have returned with Heath to the Barkley ranch from the Barkley logging camp.

 

 

Chapter 1

           

            His heart slammed against his chest as adrenaline flooded his veins.  His legs twitched within their shackles, his body’s ‘fight or take flight’ mode begging him to do one or the other.  His head whipped from side to side.  His eyes were wide and filled with panic as he searched for a means of escape.  How foolish of him.  Escape?  What was he going to do? Break the shackles that bound him to the wood floor, and then what?  Flee through cinder block walls and race across hundreds of miles of desert? Not likely.  In the first place, no one had ever broken out of Carterson.  And in the second place, he was too weak and sick to survive beneath the unrelenting New Mexico sun.

 

            He could hear the man’s footsteps now.  Slow and deliberate - heavy as they came down on the boards.  You never had any doubt when Bentell was approaching.  And the whip.  He could hear that, too.  Bentell slapped the thick handle against his palm as he approached the teenager’s cell.

 

            Heath took a ragged breath, and then another.  He would not allow his terror to show.  He would never give Bentell that satisfaction. 

 

            The squeak of the cell door announced the captain’s arrival.  Heath looked up.  The smile on Bentell’s face made Heath want to punch the man until he couldn’t smile any longer.  The teenager had seen that smile so many times.  Bentell always wore this same smug, self-satisfied smirk, when he was punishing a prisoner. 

 

            At fifteen-years-old, Heath was the youngest prisoner in Carterson, but one of the most mature. The life he’d led before joining the army had forced him to grow up fast.  He possessed the common sense and quiet reasoning abilities of a man far beyond his years.  Up until two days ago, he’d been smart throughout his stay at Carterson.  He’d done what he was told, done it well, and made certain not to draw attention to himself.  Early on in his captivity Heath had learned those things were the key to survival.  But then he’d made the mistake of helping a prisoner to his feet. The man had fainted after being made to stand at attention for six hours beneath the broiling sun.  Heath didn’t regret what he’d done.  His mother had taught him that you never turn your back on someone who needs help.  It was a simple lesson, but one Heath carried with him no matter how far he traveled from home. 

 

            Heath had been in this four-foot by four-foot windowless cell since he’d helped Sergeant Raymonds stand.  He knew they’d killed the sergeant already.  He’d heard the man’s screams echo on and on the night before, then suddenly heard them stop.  Sometime shortly after dawn, Heath had heard a body being dragged past his cell.  That would stand to reason if Raymonds had died.  Bentell wouldn’t try to hide the man’s demise.  His corpse would be strung up in the prison yard for all the Yanks to see when they were brought out for roll call.

 

            Sweat trickled down Heath’s face and chest.  He wasn’t certain how much of it was due to the stifling cell he’d been kept in for the past forty-eight hours, versus how much of it was due to fear.  He’d guess right now a good dose of it was due to fear.  A fear he vowed not to let Matt Bentell see.

 

            “Well, boy,” Bentell said, as he unbolted the thick wooden door and swung it open, “it doesn’t look like you’ve gone anywhere, huh?”

 

            Heath turned away. 

 

            “Oh, I see.  A quiet one.  Well, you quiet ones always do cause the most trouble.  And make the most filth.  You stink, boy!  You stink like the dirty little bastard you are!”

 

            A part of Heath knew that Bentell was simply taunting him.  The phrase ‘dirty bastard’ didn’t define Heath here, the way it did when he was back home in Strawberry.  Nonetheless, the words brought fury to the teenager’s soul.  He fought against his chains, which only made Bentell laugh harder. He kicked Heath in the ribs with the rock hard toe of his right boot.

 

            “Dirty bastard!  Dirty Union bastard!  That’s what you are!  That’s what you are, you no good, stinkin’ Billy Yank!  Shit in your own pants, did you?  Wet yourself, did you?  And don’t tell me it’s ‘cause we didn’t let you outta here to take your meals and take care of your needs, ‘cause I know better!”

 

            Yeah, you know better, the boy thought as he was slapped across the face.  You know damn good and well I haven’t been let outta here since you had Trevers put me in here.  And you know I ain’t been fed, either.

 

            Heath never knew how long the beating with Bentell’s boots lasted.  Nor did he realize Bentell had unfurled the whip until the first stroke sliced the skin on his back.  He didn’t scream.  He wanted to, but he didn’t.  Not with that first stroke, nor the second, nor the third, nor the fourth.

 

            Later, when Heath was hunched in a bloody heap still chained to the floor, he realized maybe he should have screamed. Maybe Bentell would have stopped the whipping sooner if he had.  Maybe he’d only angered Bentell more by gritting his teeth and keeping silent. 

 

            It didn’t matter now, though.  It was finally over.  There was nothing left of his shirt but tiny shreds of material, and Bentell was right, he did stink.  His back was on fire with a pain he never thought it possible to feel.  His rib cage ached with every breath, his mouth felt twice its size, and he couldn’t see out of his right eye.

 

            The boy sagged sideways and curled into as tight of a ball as his chains would allow.

 

            Have to be brave, his numb mind repeated the chant that had started with Bentell’s first kick to his ribs.  Have to be brave.  Have to be brave for Mama, God, and country.  Have to be brave.

 

            The litany didn’t stop until the pain drove the young soldier into unconsciousness.  Only then, with his mind in a state of unawareness, did tears run freely down Heath’s face.

 

___________________________________

 

 

            Heath Barkley didn’t scream when he shot up in bed.  But then, he never did no matter how bad the dreams were.  The room was black, and it took him a moment to remember where he was.  It was the whinny of a horse outside in the corral that told Heath he was in his bedroom in the Barkley mansion.

 

            Barkley mansion.  So many months ago now, that phrase had been replaced by one simple, heart-felt word - home.  But ever since Heath had returned from the lumber camp with Matt and Lucinda Bentell, ‘home’ had been removed from his mind in favor once again of  ‘Barkley mansion.’

 

            Yes, Heath had been fussed over when the family found out he’d been injured in the explosion set by Gil Condon.  Though the fussing wasn’t necessary, because by the time Heath had arrived back on the ranch he was fine.  Maybe they should have been around to fuss when Bentell dumped him in the barn at the lumber camp and left him there to recover on his own through one long, dark, damp night, when Heath alternated vomiting blood and coughing up thick black mucus caused by the smoke that had gotten into his lungs.  No doctor had been summoned, though Heath had heard Bentell assure Victoria, “The boy was seen by a physician, Mrs. Barkley.  The man told us no permanent damage was done.  None at all.  Me and Lucinda nursed him back to health.  A couple of days of bed rest and Lucinda’s good cooking were all he needed.”

 

            No one bothered to inquire of Heath if that was really what had happened.  They just took Bentell’s word for it and dropped the subject.  Maybe Heath should have told them differently, but then again, maybe they should have asked.

 

            The bed rest Heath had gotten came each time he passed out in the haymow, where he’d sought refuge after the sun came up. The “good cooking” was nothing more than the beef jerky Heath dug from his saddlebags.  Three days passed before the pounding in his head receded enough for him to leave the barn, bathe in the river, put on clean clothes, and join the loggers in the chow line.  He had never slept in the cabin provided for the Bentells, and his presence had certainly never been welcome at their table.  Which was funny, in an ironic sort of way, when Heath thought about it.  After all, he was a Barkley now, and by rights the two bedroom cabin the Bentells stayed in at the lumber camp was his cabin, too.  Yet Matt Bentell didn’t see it that way, and Heath had too much pride to point it out to anyone. If Heath’s family wanted to believe Matthew and Lucinda Bentell had helped him to recover, then so be it.  His family hadn’t been receptive to anything else he’d had to say on this subject since Bentell had arrived, so what was the point in going through the same old arguments all over again?  Victoria had made it clear that Heath had one choice and one choice only.  Learn to love thine enemy.  In theory, that might be the best course of action - if your enemy hadn’t taken a bullwhip to your back, that is.

 

            Heath wiped the sweat from his forehead with a hand that trembled so hard he finally had to thrust it beneath his thigh to get the tremors to stop.  For so long now, the dreams had been a thing of the past, but with the arrival of Matt Bentell, they’d been resurrected. 

 

            It’ll be better when he leaves.  He’ll be goin’ back to the lumber camp in a few days.  When he’s gone, it’ll be better.  So much better.

 

            Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall.  Heath’s heart picked up its pace again when the person stopped in front of his door.  He squinted, straining to see into the darkness.  The door didn’t open, but then it didn’t need to for him to hear what was coming from the other side. That laugh.  That laugh that made his stomach tie itself in knots.  Soft laughter. The kind meant for no one else’s ears but his. 

 

            The cowboy jumped out of bed and flew to the door.  He yanked it open, only to find the hallway dark and barren.  He looked to his right, and saw the door to the guest room was closed. 

 

            Heath stared in that direction a long minute, and then shut his own door.  He leaned against it, and when his legs could no longer support his weight, sagged to the floor.  His shaking hands raked through his sweat-soaked hair until it was standing up in wild spikes.

 

            What’s happening to me?  Why am I suddenly reliving Carterson eleven years after the war has ended? Why?

 

            No answers came to the troubled man throughout that long night. But then, in the month since the old dreams had started again, none ever had.

           

Chapter 2

                       

            The Barkleys and the Bentells gathered at the breakfast table the next morning.  Victoria took note of Heath’s vacant chair and frowned.  This was the fourth day in a row he’d left the house before anyone else was stirring.  The empty chair wasn’t lost on Matt either.

 

            “Heath’s already gone again, I take it.  I haven’t seen much of him since we arrived back here.”

 

            Nick glanced at his mother and caught the look of displeasure in her eyes.  For Heath’s sake, he quickly covered for his brother. 

 

            “Heath lives by Ben Franklin’s creed of early to bed and early to rise.  He’s up and out before the sun on most mornings.”

 

            Matt nodded as he buttered his toast.  “He’s a hard worker.  I noticed that when we were up at the camp.”

 

            “Yes, he is,” Jarrod acknowledged.  “A hard worker who can’t stand to waste a minute of daylight. Which explains his vacant seat at our table this morning, I’m sure.”

 

            Victoria smiled at her sons. She was grateful for the diplomatic way they were handling Heath’s absence. 

 

            Jarrod changed the subject.

 

            “Matt, I’d like you to come into town with me this morning.  I can show you the maps we’ve had drawn of that timber stand in Oregon we’re hoping to buy.  If the deal goes through as planned, Barkley Timber will have enough work to keep you busy for another two years.”

 

            “I’d be happy to go with you, Jarrod.  You won’t see me turning my nose up at the guarantee of another two years of employment.”

 

            Victoria took the platter of sausages Nick handed her.  She put two on her plate, then passed the platter to her daughter. “And while you men discuss business, Audra and I will take Lucinda on a picnic beside the Diamond River.”

 

            “That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Barkley. A picnic is just what I need before I begin packing our things for the return trip to the lumber camp.”

 

            “We’re going to miss you,” Audra said.  “It’s been a pleasure having you here.”

 

            “Thank you, dear.” Lucinda smiled and patted Audra’s hand.  “That’s sweet of you to say.  It’s not...well, it’s not often that Matt and I are made to feel as welcome as we have been in your home.  We truly appreciate your kindness.”

 

            From the head of the table, Victoria watched as her family and their guests enjoyed the bountiful breakfast Silas had prepared.  She had no doubts they were doing the right thing by extending employment to Matt Bentell.  It was past time for people to put the war behind them.  It was time for the United States to truly be one nation again.  The Barkleys had always led by example.  Ever since Tom and Victoria had come to the valley, they’d been leaders, rather than followers, no matter how unpopular some of the choices they made were.  Victoria wasn’t about to change that now.  Not for anyone.  Not even for Heath.

 

            When breakfast was finished, everyone rose and scattered in various directions.  Audra went to the kitchen to begin packing the picnic lunch, while Lucinda went upstairs to change into a more casual dress.  Nick headed outside to begin his working day.  Matt followed Nick as far as the front veranda, where he lit his pipe while waiting for Jarrod to gather his briefcase and hat.  Victoria stopped her oldest son as he stepped out of the study.  She kept her voice low while making a request.

 

            “Please talk to Heath after dinner tonight.  Tell him I expect to see him at the breakfast table each morning until Matt and Lucinda leave.  There’s nothing that needs to be done with such urgency that he has to be gone from the house before the rest of us are up.  I doubt he means to be rude, but considering the circumstances, I’m sure our guests are confused by his absence.”

 

            Jarrod smiled.  “As are you, dear lady?”

 

            Victoria shrugged.  “I’m not sure.  I thought Heath had come to terms with Matt Bentell, and Carterson Prison, during the three weeks he was up at the lumber camp.”

 

            “I think he did. He certainly didn’t come back yelling and threatening to kill Bentell, which was a marked difference from how he left here.  As a matter of fact, I’ve found Heath to be a perfect host ever since his return.”

 

            “He has been.  But I do want him at the table in the mornings.  We’re a family that is entertaining guests.  If I allow Heath to skip out of that duty, then Nick will be disappearing, too.”

 

            Jarrod chuckled while giving his mother a kiss on the cheek. 

 

            “You know your boys too well, Mrs. Barkley.”  The lawyer put his hat on his head and turned for the door.  “And don’t worry, I’ll talk to Heath tonight.  Matt and Lucinda will be gone in a couple of days.  I’m sure Heath will see fit to sit through breakfast until they leave.  Especially since the request is coming from you.”

 

            “From me?”

 

            Jarrod winked at his mother before walking out the door.  “For you, Mother, and you alone, Heath will do anything.”

 

            Victoria didn’t know why Jarrod’s words bothered her whenever she thought of them the rest of that day, but for some reason, they did.  After all, she should be proud to discover that her stepson thought so highly of her, and proud to discover that his devotion for her ran that deep. 

 

            But not at the expense of his own needs, Victoria thought as she watched Audra and Lucinda spread a checkered cloth on the ground beside the river at lunchtime.  Heath should never do anything for me at the expense of his own needs or desires.

 

            Victoria didn’t know why those thoughts came to her, or what they meant.  Several weeks later she would figure it out, but by then it would be too late.

 

 

Chapter 3

           

            The man stood at the window, looking out over the grounds of the Justice Department.  The cherry trees were in full bloom.  The delicate white blossoms brought the nation’s capital alive after a long, cold winter, just like they did each spring.  The beauty he used to absorb from this event had gone unnoticed for many years now.  Ever since the death of his only son, the joy life had once brought him no longer existed.  There was a part of the man that readily acknowledged this was destroying his marriage, and had irrevocably altered his relationship with his five daughters.  Though they weren’t foolish enough to speak of it in his presence, the man knew his wife and girls couldn’t understand why he was still allowing himself to wallow in grief so many years after Avery’s death.

 

            “Death,” the man muttered, as he placed an open palm on the windowpane.  “Murder is more like it.”

 

            The man stood at the window until a group of boys came into view.  He watched them walk this route each day on their way home from school.  There was one boy of about twelve years old, with wavy dark hair and an exuberant air to him that reminded the man of his long deceased child.  He was always drawn to this window at this time of day, simply to catch a glimpse of the boy.  He had no idea why he put himself through the agony.  He could only stand to watch the boy for mere seconds, before being forced to turn away.

 

            Today was no different than any other day.  He saw the boy jump and twirl in mid-air, then land on his feet and begin walking backwards.  All the while his hands waved as though he was conducting an orchestra, and a grin lit his face while he regaled his school chums with some tall tale or another.  The man squeezed his eyes shut to keep his tears from falling.

 

            “Oh, Avery, why?  Will I ever know why?”

 

            When the man had composed himself, he turned to face the center of his office.  The American flag hung in one corner, while oak bookshelves filled with volumes of legal texts and reference materials lined the east and west walls.  The south wall, directly behind him, held a row of windows.  The north wall contained the door, and his framed diploma from Harvard Law School.

 

            The man ran a hand through the unruly chestnut-hued hair that was just beginning to be flecked with gray.  He would turn fifty years old in three months.  He supposed he should feel blessed because of the boyish features that made people think he was ten years younger.  But he wasn’t ten years younger, and often felt old, and weary, and tired of the world and the aggravations she brought, in a way he’d once imagined a man of seventy might feel.  But then that’s what Avery’s death had done to him.  It had made him old and weary.  He hadn’t even gotten a body back to bury.  He’d been told there was nothing left to send home.

 

            The man crossed in front of his desk.  He glanced down at his gold nameplate with the deeply etched engraving.

 

            A. Garrett Reece, Attorney General.

 

            “Yes, that’s me,” he said to the empty office.  “A. Garrett Reece.  Avery Garrett Reece, Senior.  Though I don’t suppose one is a senior any longer, when the son who was named for him is dead.”

 

            A knock on the door caused Garrett to turn.  His hand went to his throat.  He quickly looped the string tie that had been hanging limp at his collar into a neat bow.  He grabbed his black suit jacket off the back of his chair and shouldered into it while calling, “Come in!”

 

            John Laramie entered the room.  He was the opposite of his boss in so many ways.  Garrett was six foot one, his body as lean and hard as a steel mill worker’s.  John was five foot seven and twenty pounds overweight.  He was thirty-one years old, with honey blond hair and hazel eyes.  Garrett’s eyes were deep brown, and seemed to be able to look right through a person until he found the secrets contained within the deepest parts of his or her soul.   That’s probably what had made him such a good lawyer in the days when he was in private practice.  John had no doubt it was part of what made Garrett Reece one of the best attorney generals the United States had ever possessed.  Garrett was a deep thinker who took his time and gathered all the facts before forming an opinion.  At the same time, he could tell if someone was lying to him just by looking at their face and listening to their tone of voice.

 

            The one thing John had in common with Garrett, was his family.  John, too, had five daughters, and one son, a three-year-old boy named Robert.  He never talked to Garrett about Robbie.  He’d learned long ago that the subject of sons was just too painful for Garrett to discuss.

 

            Garrett relaxed when he saw who his visitor was.  He took off his suit coat and tossed it over the back of his chair.

 

            “Shut the door, John.  Then have a seat.”

 

            John did as requested.  He sat in one of the two chairs positioned across from Garrett’s desk.  The attorney general rested one hip on the corner of the massive oak structure.  John wasn’t surprised when Garrett’s hand rose to undo his tie, then the first button on his shirt.

 

            “We’re starting a new investigation tomorrow morning.”

 

            “Sir?”

 

            “I’ve got two tickets for the train.  We leave at eight a.m.  Tell your wife you might be gone for an extended period of time.”

 

            “But, Garrett, we’re right in the middle of the Hornsby investigation.”

 

            “I’ve turned that over to Sinclair and Cates.”

 

            “But you never turn one of your personal investigations over to someone else.  Especially not two people as green as George and Adam.”

 

            “Don’t worry about them.  I spent the better part of today briefing them, and Mark Donner.  Mark will oversee their work.  I have no concerns.”

 

            “Exactly what is this new investigation all about?  And exactly where is it we’re going that brings with it the need for me to tell Maggie I’m going to be gone for an ‘extended period of time’ as you phrased it?”

 

            “We’re going to California.”

 

            “California!”

 

            “Yes, California.  And the investigation involves a man by the name of Bentell.  Matthew Reynolds Bentell.”

 

            “Matt Bentell?  Garrett, you know as well as I do that Bentell was cleared of all charges ten years ago.  Exactly who authorized this investigation?”

 

            “I authorized it.  I am, after all, the attorney general.”

 

            “I realize that, but...” John paused, knowing any argument he offered would do no good.  He switched tactics.  “If you find Bentell, what are going to do with him?”

 

            “Bring him to trial.”

 

            “He was already put on trial, Garrett.”

 

            “Yes.  But not a trial that meant anything.  Not a trial with witnesses who gave testimony to the type of treatment they received at Bentell’s hands.”  Garrett stood and began pacing the room.  “I’ve never been able to discern why that is.  There had to be people in our government who were protecting Bentell.  People who didn’t want to see him hang for what he’d done - for how he ran that prison camp. Maybe even people who owed him favors for some reason.”

 

            John nodded as he turned in his chair so he could face his boss. “I suppose it’s possible.  Though I don’t understand why.  After all, he was a traitor in a loose sense of the word.  A Northern military officer who chose to fight with the South, before being put in charge of Carterson.”

 

            “His wife was a Southerner,” Garrett said. “Born and raised in Mississippi.  I’ve always assumed that had something to do with Bentell’s allegiance to the South.  I’ve heard his wife is unstable.  Supposedly always has been.”

 

            “And that would cause a man to side with the Confederates?”

 

            “It could.  Love does strange things to people, John.  But regardless of Bentell’s reasons for joining the Southern cause, the fact that over three thousand men died at Carterson in twelve months time still remains.  The fact that not one of the men who survived the ordeal was brought forward as a witness at Bentell’s so-called trial remains.  I plan to rectify that situation, and rectify it soon.”

 

            “Have you talked to the president about this?”

 

            “I have an appointment with him later this evening.”

 

            “What will he say?”

 

            “Don’t you worry about what he’ll say.  I’ll handle Sam Grant.  You just go home and pack.”

 

            “Garrett, I’ve worked for you for a long time now, and in that time we’ve grown to be friends.  Therefore, I hope you understand what I’m about to ask you comes as a direct result of that friendship.”

 

            “You’re right, John.  We’re friends.  So you may ask me what you will.”

 

            “If we launch the investigation you describe, can you remain neutral throughout it?  Can you...well, can you forget that Avery died at Carterson Prison?”

 

            Garrett shoved his hands in his pants pockets. He let out a heavy sigh and crossed to the windows.  He looked down at the cherry trees a long moment, before finally answering his assistant.

 

            “No, John, I can’t forget.  No matter how long I live, I’ll never forget Avery lost his life while under Matt Bentell’s rule.”  Garrett turned to face his chief assistant.  “And there must be other men out there who can’t forget either.  I intend to find them, and find Bentell.  And then, Johnny boy, only then, will we have the trial that should have taken place a decade ago.”

 

            John left his boss’s office a few minutes later.  He didn’t like the look in Garrett’s eyes, but there was little he could do about it.

 

            With luck, the president will put an end to this before Garrett takes it any farther.  Regardless of the final outcome, no good is bound to come of this.  No good at all.

 

 

Chapter 4

 

            Lucinda sat on the window seat in the Barkley guestroom she and Matt had been given use of.  It had been a glorious afternoon for a picnic. The sun was bright, but not too hot.  The Diamond River had sparkled for her visitors just like her name implied.   The beauty around her had fascinated Lucinda, and she was envious, too, that one family owned all of this land.  This is how it might have been for herself and Matt had the war not come along.  Her family had been wealthy at one time, too.  She was an only child, adored and shamelessly spoiled by her parents.  Matt would have inherited her father’s plantation had those damned Yankees not burned it to the ground.

 

            But thanks to the war, that’s not how things would ever be.  The most Matt could hope for was to always be another man’s employee.  Another man’s nigger. Thanks to the Barkleys, at least a home and a job were a guarantee for some months to come.  Even if the home was nothing more than a two-bedroom cabin in the middle of a lumber camp.

 

            Lucinda reached up and took the pins out of her hair.  She knew dinner wouldn’t be served for two hours yet, and that she should be napping like Mrs. Barkley had suggested.  But she didn’t feel like taking a nap.  She felt...restless.  Untamed.  Unsettled. Wild. Yes, she felt wild.  That wild feeling was coming over her like it often had since she’d reached her mid-teens.

 

            The woman laughed as she slipped out of her dress.  She tossed it across the room, not caring that it landed in a heap on the floor.

 

            “Heaven’s to Betsy, what made me put on that dumpy frock?  I’m not an old maid.  I’m young and free!”

 

            Lucinda stripped until she was wearing nothing but her corset.  She untied the strings, allowing her breasts to flow from their confinement.

 

            “A girl shouldn’t have to bind herself so.  It’s not right to keep such treasures hidden.”

 

              The woman shook her head until her blond hair fell to her waist.  She ran her hands through it, fluffing it until it was a wild mane.  She twirled round and round in a circle with her arms spread wide.  She stopped to gyrate her hips and flaunt her breasts as though she had an audience.

 

            “Men love long hair.  Oh they do, they do, they do.  They love to run their hands through it. They love to see it cascading down a woman’s back in the soft glow of a lamplight, while she slowly undresses for them.  I’ve undressed for a lot of men, ‘cause that’s just the kind of gal I am.”

 

            Lucinda laughed at her rhyme.  She repeated it over and over as she twirled until she was too dizzy to continue.  She collapsed on the window seat, laughing and breathless and panting.  Her panting increased when she caught sight of the blond cowboy working a horse in the corral.

 

            “Oh, I love him.  I’ve loved him for a long time.  Ever since he was a boy.  I wanted him so bad.  So very, very, bad.  But Matt said no.  He said leave the boys alone. All the boys.  Matt was just jealous.  He doesn’t understand that a woman needs more than one man to keep her happy.  I had that other boy.  I liked him a lot.  But I wanted this one, too.  His friend.”  Lucinda’s eyes danced with delight as she watched Heath’s every move.  “Yes, I wanted this one.  I almost had him one time.  Maybe...just maybe, he can still be mine.”

 

            When Matt Bentell entered the room thirty minutes later, his wife was still sitting on the window seat half naked, while watching Heath Barkley’s every move.  She smiled as he quickly shut the door.

 

            “What’s the matter, Matty, you afraid someone might see me in the all-together?”

 

            “Cinda, get dressed for dinner.”

 

            The woman stood and slinked over to her husband. Her southern drawl was even deeper and stronger than usual. “Oh, Matt, it excites me so when you talk to me like that.  Like I’m a naughty, naughty, girl and you’re my daddy.”

 

            “I’m not your daddy, Cinda, I’m your husband.  And I’m telling you to get dressed for dinner.”

 

            Lucinda reached for Matt’s belt.  “You may not be my daddy, sugar, but I ain’t your Cinda either. I’m Clarice.  You know me, baby.  Clarice.  And you know I won’t be a good girl until you give me what I want.”

 

            “Cinda...Clarice, please.  We’re expected downstairs in the parlor in an hour.”

 

            Lucinda ran her hands over Matt’s chest as she unfastened the buttons on his shirt.  “That gives us plenty of time for what I have in mind, sweet Matt.  Plenty of time.”

 

            Matt knew there was no use to protest.  Especially not here, in the Barkley house.  That would only cause a scene he didn’t want to explain.  He tried not to flinch as his wife unfastened his trousers and slipped them down his legs.  Her hands left not one spot untouched while she divested him of his clothing.  When he was naked, he allowed her to lead him to the bed.  She made love to him like a whore would make love to one of her clients.  When she’d gotten everything from him he could physically give, she laughed, flipped him sideways, and slapped his rear end.  She returned him to his back, straddled his hips, and gave him one last open-mouthed kiss.

 

            “Oh, Matty,” she pouted when she finally came up for air, “I wish you liked it better.  I wish you liked it as much as I do.”  With that, the woman rolled off her husband and onto the mattress, promptly falling asleep.

 

            Matt sat up and swung his legs over the bed.  He buried his head in his hands until he had no choice but to wash up and dress for dinner.

 

Chapter 5

 

            A Negro butler led Garrett to President Grant’s private quarters.  The sun had set an hour earlier.  The White House glowed both inside and out with more gaslights than Garrett could count.

 

            The president stood at a sideboard in the parlor with his back to the double doors.  When the butler had taken just one step into the room, he stopped and announced,  “The attorney general requests an audience with you, Mr. President.”

 

            A smile was already lighting President Grant’s face when he turned around.  He crossed the room with hand extended.

 

            “Garrett!  It’s a pleasure to see you.  Quite a pleasure.”

 

            The butler exited, shutting the doors behind him without either man taking more than slight notice.  But then that’s what the White House staff was paid to do, come and go quietly and discreetly.

 

            Garrett shook his friend’s hand.  Anyone who hadn’t known Sam Grant as long as Garrett had, might not detect the weakness in his grip, or the slight tremor of his limbs, or the recent weight loss that made his face look drawn and pale beneath his mustache and full beard.  Garrett Reece was also one of the few people who knew the president’s given name was Hiram Ulysses Grant, as opposed to being Ulysses Simpson Grant, like many thought, or Ulysses Samuel Grant, like others thought.  It was Ulysses Grant himself, who let the misconceptions stand amongst the press, and the American people.  When a West Point clerk had mistakenly registered Cadet Grant as Ulysses S. Grant in May of 1839, young Grant didn’t correct him. The S didn’t stand for anything as far as Grant was concerned, though it was true that his mother’s maiden name was Simpson.  The fact that the president’s closest friends called him, Sam, was a long standing joke that went back to his days at West Point, when Grant had enjoyed allowing the confusion over his name to reign.   

 

            Sam patted Garrett on the back, and then led him toward the sideboard. “May I offer you a drink?  Whiskey?  Brandy?  Or how about a glass of French champagne given to me by the ambassador himself.”

 

            “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

 

            Sam threw his head back and laughed.  “Whatever I’m having?  Garrett, I’m having a lady’s drink called apricot nectar.  Or I believe that’s what my wife refers to it as.  It’s thick as molasses, sweet as a child’s penny candy, and makes me gag when I’m tossing it back, but such is my life recently.”

 

            Now Garrett understood the signs he was seeing in Sam. At first he thought it was the heavy weight of the presidency taking its toll on him, but now he knew it was the familiar demon Sam had fought on and off since he was barely twenty years old. Alcohol.

 

            “Apricot nectar is fine.”

 

            Without turning his head from the bottles and glasses on the sideboard, Sam’s eyes slid to his friend.  “You’re a better man than I am, Garrett.  Always have been. Always will be.  My best aid during the war years.  The trusted advisor who was always at my side.  Your opinion meant more to me than anyone others combined.  You got our asses out of hot water more times than I can count.  Your strategies won the war as much as mine did, yet you never got the credit, nor would take it when I tried to give it to you.”

 

            Garrett took the glass of thick orange liquid Sam handed him.  He followed the president to the two chairs that sat at an angle in front of the fireplace.  He watched Sam sink into his favorite chair.  Garrett seated himself in the remaining chair.  When Sam took a cigar out of his pocket and lit it, Garrett did the same with his pipe.

 

            “I was never interested in public recognition,” Garrett said, as he kicked off his shoes, wiggled his toes a long moment, and then settled his stocking feet on the ottoman in front of him.  “Look at where public recognition got you.”

 

            Sam laughed again.  “Yes, look at where it got me.  Right here in this miserable White House.”  Sam sobered. “I thank the Lord my term is coming to an end, Garrett.  I truly do.  At this time next year, I’ll be traveling around the world.”

 

            “Around the world?”

 

            “I promised Julia the trip of a lifetime when I leave office.  What the hell, we’ve got the money, so why not bring a little pleasure to the wife who has stood by me through thick and thin.”

 

            “I’m sure that will make Julia happy.”

 

            “Judging by the amount of gowns she’s already having made, I’ll agree with you there. And what about you?  How are Madeline and the girls?”

 

            “The girls are fine,” Garrett said, as he took two puffs on his pipe and then blew out the smoke.  “Four are married with families of their own now. Only my youngest, Jane, still lives at home.  This is her last year at Miss Hillbridge’s Academy.  If I’m not mistaken, she has her eye on a young man she’s known since she was a little girl. About the time you set sail for your trip, I imagine I’ll be walking her down the aisle.”

 

            Sam waited his old friend out.  When Garrett let the conversation end there he said, “And Madeline?  You didn’t mention her.  How is that beautiful wife of yours?”

 

            For the first time all night Garrett broke eye contact. 

 

            “She’s fine.  Fine.  Says I work too hard, and am away from home too many hours.  But what wife doesn’t say that to her husband?”

            Though the president had long known the reasons behind Garrett’s marital problems, he kept his reply neutral.  “Good point.  After all, can a woman really ever hope to understand the man she loves?”

 

            Garrett looked into his glass, swirling the bright orange liquid round and round.  “No, Sam,” he said so quietly the president had to strain to hear his words.  “No, I don’t believe a woman can really ever understand.”

 

            The two men fell into a companionable silence.  When it had lingered long enough, Sam spoke up again.

 

            “While I’m honored that you took the time out of your busy schedule to come see an old friend, Garrett, I have a feeling there’s more to your visit than what you’ve revealed thus far.”

 

            The attorney general tore his gaze away from the fireplace and met Sam’s eyes. “More?”

 

            “I know that look.  It’s the look you get whenever you’re determined to have your way.  Whenever you’re determined to do something you know might not be met with a round of applause.”

 

            For the first time since arriving at the White House, Garrett smiled.  He raised his glass and toasted the president.  “Here, here.”

 

            Sam raised his glass, then winced as he took a long swallow.  He stuck out his tongue and shook his head.  “Damn crap.  We never woulda’ won the war if they’d made us drink this vile concoction while we were fightin’ the Rebs.”

 

            Garrett laughed as he wondered just how long Julia would manage to keep Sam a teetotaler.  She’d attempted it in the past, many a time.  Her attempts were successful for a few months, but rarely extended beyond that.

 

            Again, silence fell over the room.  Garrett finally took a deep breath and set his half full glass on the marble tabletop beside his chair.

 

            “Sam, I want to reopen the Carterson Prison investigation.  I want to bring Matt Bentell to trial again.”

 

            The president didn’t shout, “What!” or “Have you gone daft in the head?” like Garrett half expected him to.  Instead, Sam stared at his friend with quiet contemplation.  If the truth were told, Grant was surprised it had taken Garrett so long to get around to making this request.   He took a long swallow of nectar, grimaced again, and then asked, “What do you have to go on?”

 

            Garrett gave a heavy sigh of relief.  If nothing else, Sam was willing to listen.

 

            “I’ll be honest with you and say, not much at this point.  I do know Bentell is working for a family in California by the name of Barkley.”

 

            Sam nodded.  Though he didn’t know the Barkleys, he’d heard of them. “Wealthy people, aren’t they?”

 

            “Yes.  Very.  They own a ranch that spans ten thousand acres.  Not to mention orchards, vineyards, plus mining and logging operations.  Bentell’s been running a new lumber operation for them.”

 

            “Do you think they know who he is?”

 

            “I’m assuming they do.  From what little I’ve uncovered so far, he’s now using his legal name.”

 

            “Now?”

 

            “He was going by Matthew Toddman for a long period of time, but just recently returned to using Bentell.”

 

            Sam stroked his beard. “Mmmm, that’s interesting.  It makes a fella wonder why the Barkleys would hire him.  They weren’t Southern sympathizers, were they?”

 

            “No.  Quite the contrary.  The oldest son, Jarrod, who now practices law in both Stockton and San Francisco, served with a Union intelligence unit right here in Washington. He also saw battle and rose to the rank of captain.  The second son, Nick, rose to the rank of sergeant within an infantry corps.  He joined up at the age of eighteen, and was twenty when the war ended.  There’s a third son, Eugene, but he was barely out of diapers when the war started.”

 

            “Sounds to me like the Barkleys are loyal servants to their country.”

 

            “I agree. And from what I understand, one of the most well-respected families in the state of California. I can only assume that they are trying to set a good example for their neighbors by employing Bentell.”

 

            “That’s possible.”  Sam studied his friend in the shadows of the gas lamps.  “Perhaps they feel like the war ended over a decade ago, and it’s time to put the old hurts behind us.”

 

            Garrett met Sam’s eyes without flinching. “Not all of us have had the opportunity to lay those hurts to rest, Sam.”

 

            “Garrett--”

 

            “Look, I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say Avery’s been dead for eleven years.  You’re going to say it’s time I come to terms with that. You’re going to say it’s time I move on.  Well, damn it, Sam, I can’t move on!  My child is dead!  My only son was murdered by that poor excuse for a man Bentell!”

 

            “You have no proof of that, Garrett.  All you know is that Avery died while at Carterson Prison.  You have no proof that Bentell had anything to do with his death.  He could have died from disease, or an infection, or he could have been injured in battle before he was captured, or--”

 

            Garrett’s fist slammed against the arm of his chair.  “No!  Don’t ask me how, but deep in my heart I know Avery’s death wasn’t caused by any of those things. Bentell wasn’t stupid.  The Confederate officers knew who was who amongst the Northern troops, just like we knew who was who amongst their troops. Bentell had to know Avery was my son, and that I was your chief aid.  I don’t know what he did to my boy, but I know whatever it was, Bentell did it because he was trying to get back at us, Sam.  At me.”

 

            “He doesn’t even know you, Garrett.”

 

            “Not personally, no.  But he doesn’t know you either, yet if it had been one of your sons who’d ended up in his stinking filth of a prison – if it had been Fred, or Ulysses, or Jesse - how do you think he would have fared when Bentell found out who his father was?”

 

            The president readily admitted to himself that Garrett had a point.  Still, most of this was speculation, nothing more.  He watched as his friend stood and crossed to stand in front of the fireplace.  It was too warm on this late spring night for any logs to be burning within.  Garrett caressed the smooth maple wood of the mantel with his right hand.

 

            “Avery ran off and joined the army when he was sixteen years old, Sam.  If I would have been home, I’d have forbidden it.  But I wasn’t home. I was with you.  By the time Madeline got word to me, it was too late.  I don’t suppose I could have changed his mind anyway.  You know how boys are at that age.  No longer children, but not yet men.  It’s an in-between stage that I remember from personal experience as hell.  Maybe even more so when you’re the son of a famous man off fighting in the only civil war this country has ever seen. I’ve always assumed Avery thought he had to prove something to me.  Why, I don’t know.  But deep down inside I’m sure that was the reason for his actions.  That, and probably the thought of the type of adventure a war holds to a sixteen-year-old.  He was three weeks short of his eighteenth birthday when he died, Sam. Still a boy.  Still my boy.  Someone, somewhere, has to know why Avery’s life was cut short.”

 

            “And if you find this someone?”

 

            Garrett turned to face his friend. “If I find him, I’ll make him testify.”

 

            “I see.  And just how will you go about finding this elusive man? If he even exists.”

 

            “I have a list that contains the name of every man who left Carterson Prison alive.  There were only ninety of them.  Ninety.  Even if I have to travel throughout this entire country, I’ll track all of them down.”

 

            “I seriously doubt it, but that’s beside the point.  Garrett, it’s highly probable that these men you’re talking about won’t be willing to speak of their experiences in Carterson at this late date.  Most of them have no doubt moved on with their lives.  Gotten married and are raising families.   You know how these POW survivors can be.  It’s quite likely many of them haven’t even told their wives they were in Carterson.  The experience...well it affects these men in ways even the best doctors don’t understand.  Mark my words, they won’t want to relive any of it.”

 

            “I can subpoena them.  Then they’ll have no choice but to tell what they know.”

 

            “Spoken like a tr