The Wicked North (Hearts Touched By Fire Book 1) by Gina Danna Page A

Missing her wasn’t possible. He had a saddlebag full of letters from her. They made his nerves prickle at times. He was glad to get mail. It never failed to break the monotony—the dull routine of drills, inspections and time that filled the day. Even gambling got old. But Caroline’s long stories of every little thing she did could grate on a man’s nerves.
    “No,” he laughed. “I don’t think I’ll have the chance of missing her. Her letters always come through, like a homing pigeon.” He shook his head.
    Charles cocked his head. “Emma?”
    Jack quickly looked away. Emma. Her letters were short, very rare and hardly personal. Not happy about her brevity, he couldn’t really complain either. He had plenty of other beauties who wrote. No, the problem with Emma was she invaded his dreams. They had shared only one kiss, but the impression of it and the feel of her in his arms remained strong. How many times had he awakened from dreams of her naked, in his arms? He even tried to wash the desire away with whiskey and whores, but that didn’t work. All he got for it was a bad headache and frustration.
    Charles gazed at him. With a half smirk, Jack replied, “No, I hear from her, too. Not as much, mind you. Perhaps it’s melancholy.”
    “You? Melancholy? I doubt it,” Charles chuckled. “Thought you never wanted to go home again.”
    His eyebrows raised. Charles had figured it out. Jean Baptiste Fontaine had destroyed that longing years ago. Jack was just surprised he’d been that transparent about his feelings.
    “Jack, both my sisters like you,” Charles continued. “I’m sure you’ll hear from them again. And perhaps you’ll get lucky and get leave or reassigned back East.” He poured a shot for Jack and himself. Pushing the glass to his friend, Charles raised his. “To freedom!”
    Jack raised his glass and downed the amber liquid. Perhaps if he drank enough tonight, he’d sleep without dreaming of Emma, but he doubted it.
     
     
     

 
     
    I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of
this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood.
    —John Brown, 1859
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Seven
     
    Harper’s Ferry, Virginia, 1859
     
    Robert E. Lee stood behind his desk at his home in Arlington, organizing for his return to Texas. His leave in 1857 to head back East because of the death of his father-in-law, George Washington Parke Custis, had extended into two years of various assignments for the War Department. But now, his time home was over. As much as he hated to leave his wife, he had his orders.
    He wiped his brow on the warm October morning, supervising his slaves with the luggage. Parks, one of Custis’ slaves that Lee had inherited, dropped the trunk, spilling papers, ink and books across the parquet floor. The man glanced at his new owner before slowly bending over the mess, his movements sluggish. Anger flared through Lee. His distaste of the peculiar institution of slavery grew daily, especially with those slaves he inherited from Custis. The lot of them had to be the worst he’d ever seen, rebellious beyond reason, despite Lee’s care of them.
    “Reuben,” he said, straining to keep his voice even.
    The elder slave appeared at his side. “Yes, massa.”
    “Parks here needs to be reminded of his position,” he stated loudly.
    Reuben retained his stance, not flinching from his owner’s command, but both knew Parks would never change, no matter how many chores or whippings he got. The abolitionist who had come to Parks, Reuben and the other Custis slaves spewing trash about them being free because of their master’s death had left an indelible impression on them. And Lee had spent the last twelve months showing them otherwise. Reuben, however, knew his place. He gave a curt nod and grabbed Parks roughly, pulling him out of the room.
    Slavery left a bad taste in Lee’s mouth and he so wanted to throw all his darkies out, let the world treat them however it