The Salvation of Captain Ben Chandler

By Teri Thackston

Heading home to Texas after the Civil War, Confederate Captain Ben Chandler catches Clarity Breckenridge stealing the stallion he bought in Kentucky. Clarity says she owns the horse but everyone else claims that Clarity is dead. When a killer tries to permanently keep her from proving her identity, Ben whisks her—and her horse—to Texas.

Ben’s family is dead, his lover is gone and he suffered so many near-misses during the war that he just wants to hide back home. When Clarity’s presence threatens to bring him painfully back to life, he resists his growing attraction to her.

Meanwhile Clarity’s vow to return home and prove her identity is strained by her growing attraction to Ben. But a near rape years earlier makes her afraid that she could not be a whole woman for him, so she pulls back, too. Fleeing a killer and their own pasts, can they reclaim Clarity’s identity and find love and new lives together?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Teri Thackston
• Release date: Dec 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463863701

Teri Thackston

Teri Thackston is a native Texan and life-long lover of storytelling. Her award-winning novels cover the spectrum of romance, from suspense to paranormal to historical. Her very first novel—a blatant rip-off of the popular television series Get Smart—was written when she was at the wise old age of eleven years and will never—to the delight of readers everywhere—see the light of publication. Her more original works are seeing that light today and she hopes that fact will delight those same readers.

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The Salvation of

Captain Ben Chandler

by

Teri Thackston

The Salvation of Captain Ben Chandler

Copyright 2017

Teri Thackston

With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or used in whole or part by any means without the written permission of the author ([e-mail]). That means that anyone who purchases the book—or receives it as a gift—may not then distribute any copies to other people without receiving written permission from the author.

All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, with or without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.00.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons—living or dead—or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Cover Design Copyright 2017 Teri Thackston

Base images for cover design:

Young woman

© Svet_Feo Shutterstock.com photo ID 611662154

https://www.shutterstock.com/image-photo/beautiful-attractive-blond-caucasian-girl-model-611662154

Young man

© xavierarnau iStockphoto.com photo ID 471910353

http://www.istockphoto.com/photo/cowboy-at-dusk-gm471910353-28483874

The Salvation of Captain Ben Chandler is a 2nd edition (revised), publication and copyright

by Teri Thackston 2017

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Original Electronic Book Publication September 2009

By Cerridwen Press (Ellora’s Cae)

Original Copyright @2009 Teri Thackston

Original ISBN 978-1-4199215-4-4

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction—

Colt is owned by the New Colt Holding Corporation

Chapter One

Two bullets tore into his right calf, setting his bones on fire. He collapsed onto a pile of blood-soaked gray-clad corpses, shreds of the Confederate Battle Flag clutching at him like the tentacles of an octopus. Stars studding the red, white and blue saltire—the flag that he bled for—bit into his limbs and held him down. A dark figure loomed over him, late sunlight glinting on the wicked blade of the bayonet attached to the rifle it held. The figure tilted its faceless head back and uttered an unearthly shriek and then rammed the bayonet home.

Ben Chandler woke with a gasp. Sweat poured from his body, soaking his clothes and the blanket beneath him.

Nightmare. It was just a nightmare.

He sucked in another breath and tried to slow his racing heart. He was safe and alone, lying on a bed of soft Kentucky grass under a field of real stars, his Texas-bred body recovered from the wounds he’d received at one battle after another over the past five years. The war was over. He was safe. Safe.

The shriek came again, real now, and he bolted upright. Something was wrong with the Arabian.

Shoving aside his blanket and duster, Ben grabbed his rifle and rolled up to his feet. The pain in his wounded calf hit him hard but he kept moving.

In the shadows of the big trees that surrounded his camp, he knelt and looked for the horses in the nearby clearing. Despite the bright moon, shadows from the surrounding woods made it hard to see the russet Arabian or the black mare.

He glimpsed movement to the right, a flash of red. The stallion had moved. Rising to a half-crouch, rifle at the ready, Ben moved in that direction, keeping under cover of the trees. He heard a whispered voice followed by a quiet nicker from the horse. Ben crouched lower, studying what was happening. Someone stood on the far side of the stallion. From his crouched position, only the legs were visible below the horse’s body and a hat above the animal’s back. No clear shot. Not that he wanted to take one. He was sick of killing and if there was another way to stop the thief, he’d take it.

Leaning his rifle against the nearest tree, Ben crept into the small clearing, ignoring the painful strain that stealthy movements put on his leg. He rounded the horse’s rump, keeping a good distance from the powerful legs, and then leaped toward the horse thief.

A sharp cry erupted from the thief’s throat. The Arabian squealed and sidestepped and then Ben carried his quarry to the ground well beyond the stallion’s prancing hooves. Landing on top of the brigand, it took only an instant for Ben to realize that the thief was a woman.

What the hell—

He rolled off her but kept a grip on one of her arms. She tried to jerk free as he hauled her to her feet but he wasn’t about to let her go. The bright moonlight confirmed that she was dressed as a man in britches and a Union sack coat, although that was not unusual in these days after the war. He’d knocked her hat off when he’d grabbed her, and now blond curls tumbled down around her ears.

She tried again to pull free of his grip. Let me go, you thievin’ son of a bitch!

Who’s the thief here? Ben asked, ignoring her demand.

The stallion, still skittish, kicked out its back hooves so Ben dragged his captive back toward the trees. From the corner of one eye, he caught sight of his mare shuffling nervously several yards away.

You are, you son of a bitch!

She tried to kick him but he twisted her around so that her back was to him. Wrapping his arms around her, pinning her arms at her sides, he yanked her back against his body and held her tight.

Be still! To add strength to his command, he squeezed.

His grip produced the intended effect. As she couldn’t catch a breath, she began to struggle less forcibly. Ben took a deep breath of his own even as he cut off hers. Almost every part of his body ached from his rough movements, which wasn’t surprising considering that almost every part of his body had suffered one kind of wound or another in the past few years.

All right now. He eased his grip enough for her to catch a shallow breath. Do you want to tell me what you were doing with my horse?

My horse! You stole him, you son of a—

He cut her off again with another squeeze. Only a moment passed before he felt her weaken from lack of air. Finally, she stopped struggling and he again eased his grip enough for her to draw in another breath.

Let’s try this again, he said more quietly, leaning down to speak close to her ear. Her blond hair tickled his nose. Why were you trying to steal my horse?

He eased his grip a little more, preparing himself for her to try to wriggle away again. But she just stood there inhaling and exhaling quickly.

Finally, she said, Sir Robin belongs to me.

That was the horse’s name but her knowing it didn’t mean anything. I bought that horse from a fella in Blue Leaf, Ben said. I have the bill of sale to prove it.

He was stolen from my family farm.

Can you prove that?

She didn’t answer. Ben realized how still she stood, rigid really, as if she was terrified of his touch. Her clothing indicated she was some kind of camp follower or farm worker but he had to admit that her speech sounded educated. It was possible that she was a young woman of good breeding who had fallen on hard times. There were certainly enough of them around these days. But that didn’t make her any less of a horse thief and a liar.

He eased his grip a little more. If you promise not to—

Before he could finish his sentence, she jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. Pain shattered through the left side of his chest, doubling him nearly in half, forcing him to lose his grip. Free of him, she ran for the horse again. The Arabian whinnied loudly and shied when she lunged for its halter. That gave Ben enough time to recover his wind, take three steps and wrap an arm around her waist again. He jerked her around to face him, his pain lending fury to his mood.

You’re a regular little hellcat, aren’t you? he said. Using his wounded leg, he swept her feet out from under her and put her firmly on the ground. Straddling her, he pinned her wrists on either side of her head.

No! She began to buck beneath him. Stop! Let me go!

Ben had reached his limit. He was tired. His leg ached. His chest throbbed and he sure as hell didn’t like being called a thief. I’m not going to hurt you if you’ll just— be—still!

He tightened his hands around her wrists, clamped his thighs against her hips and she went instantly still. For a moment, he thought she’d fainted but then he saw that her eyes were squeezed tightly shut. A person could do that only when they were conscious. He realized, too, that her body wasn’t as limp as he’d thought. Although she lay still beneath him, her hands were clenched into fists and her legs were stiff between his. Considering their positions, he realized what she must be thinking.

I’m not going to hurt you, he said again more quietly. My name is Ben Chandler. I bought that horse from a man named Lassiter. I’m taking him back to Texas for a friend of mine who wants him for breeding. I’m not going to hurt you, he said again. With his words, he eased his right leg across her body so that he no longer straddled her in such an intimate way.

Slowly her eyes opened and she glared up at him. In the moonlight, he couldn’t tell what color her eyes were but they were pretty in spite of the anger that drew lines around them. In fact, altogether she was a pretty woman in spite of her temper and her boyish clothing.

Did you say Lassiter? Her teeth clenched around the name.

Yes. Richard Lassiter. I met him at a hotel in a town called Blue Leaf, not far from here. He said the horse belonged to a relative who’d died in the war. In fact, the whole family died in the war. He said he was the only one left.

She sucked in a deep breath, held it for a moment and then released it. Her body still did not relax. Richard Lassiter is my cousin and I live in Blue Leaf.

Well, things are starting to make a little sense.

Things are starting to make a lot of sense. Richard is a bloodsucking varmint who’d steal his own mother blind if he got the chance. Once again she tried to wrench herself free and when she couldn’t, she shouted, That horse belongs to me!

Ben couldn’t trust her not to attack him again if he gave her half a chance. If he thought all of you were dead and he was the family heir then he was within his rights to sell that horse.

He has no rights to Sir Robin. I raised him since my father gave him to me on my fifteenth birthday. We were going to breed him but the war put a stop to our plans.

I’m sorry to hear that. But it’s not my problem. I paid good money for that horse.

Well, you’ll just have to find Richard and get your money back.

She began to struggle again. Let me go!

Damn it, woman, I want to let you up. But you’ve got to behave.

Her answer was to struggle harder.

That’s enough.

Rising, Ben yanked her upright and slung her over his shoulder. She squealed and began to kick at him, uttering curses he’d never known a female to utter. He clamped an arm over her legs and hauled her back to his camp like a sack of cotton. There he leaned down with difficulty and grabbed the rope off his saddle.

You’re not going to settle down and I can’t sleep and watch the horse and you at the same time. Leg burning from his struggles and up-and-down movements, he carried her to a nearby tree and dumped her on her butt in front of it. This time, he didn’t care how hard she landed.

Ouch! Stunned for a moment, she glared up at him and then shot upward.

Ben clamped a hand on her shoulder and shoved her back down. Then before she could move again, he looped the rope around her upper arms and quickly tied her to the tree.

What are you doing? she demanded, kicking her booted feet at his legs.

One of her kicks caught his wounded leg just below where the bullet had gone in. Sudden pain nearly buckled his knee and he went down hard on his butt.

Swearing under his breath, Ben scooted out of reach of her kicking feet. Pain radiated through his leg, competing with the pain she’d sent through his chest a few minutes earlier. Damn it, woman, will you settle down?!

No!

Getting to his feet once more, he made another loop of the rope around the tree, tied it off securely and then limped back to his bedroll several yards away. Lowering himself stiffly to the blanket, he stretched out his wounded leg and yanked up his britches to check it. The wound had given him a hell of a lot of trouble early on, getting infected and bringing up a fever. Even healed, it still sometimes ached like the dickens without her kicking it.

Once he was sure it was all right, he pushed down his britches’ leg and then pushed a hand up inside his shirt to make sure she hadn’t kicked loose a rib. Everything appeared to be in its proper place, including the puckered scar above his heart. He suspected that there was a new bruise but most of the pain was inside. It felt almost as if something had shifted inside his chest. That was entirely possible since the bullet there had never been removed.

But he’d worry about that later. Right now, he needed to get rid of the headache growing between his ears. A headache caused by her constant yammering.

He glared at his captive. Are you going to shut up or do I have to stuff my neckerchief in your mouth?

She clamped her mouth shut but continued to return his glare. He imagined that she was carrying on her tirade in her mind.

What’s your name? he asked after a few moments of blissful silence. Even the horses had finally quieted down.

Why should I tell you anything? she asked.

Because you want me to believe you.

She lifted her chin. My name is Clarity Breckenridge. My family has—had—a farm near Blue Leaf until it was burned out by some damn Rebel raiders.

Hearing the catch in her voice, he asked, Your parents were killed in the fire?

She nodded.

I’m sorry to hear that. Ben softened his tone. You had brothers and sisters?

Her eyes shone suddenly and Ben thought tears might have welled up.

Two brothers, she finally said. Both killed in the war.

I’m sorry to hear that, too.

Not as sorry as I am.

There was no defeat in her voice. Just grit. Ben admired that even though he didn’t intend to turn over the horse to her.

Why does your cousin think you’re dead too? he asked.

Distant cousin, she corrected. By marriage.

All right. No love lost there, he realized. Why does your distant cousin think you’re dead?

I don’t know.

Well, there has to be a reason a man would think such a thing. Were you at home when the fire broke out there?

No. I was in a field hospital. Nashville.

You were a nurse?

Hell, no. I was there because a Rebel minie ball knocked me out just as we were whooping the Confederate—

You fought in the battle, Ben interrupted.

She lifted her chin. Yes.

Ben wasn’t completely surprised. He’d run into several female soldiers over the years. But this wisp of a girl didn’t look strong enough to have lasted through a battle like Nashville suffered.

Where were you hit? he asked.

Side of the head. Afterward, I was unconscious for a while and when I woke up in the hospital, I didn’t remember who I was.

You didn’t have any identification?

It was missing. She took a deep breath. Before my injury, I possessed several personal letters and a silver ring with my name engraved in it. Someone must have stolen everything while I was unconscious.

Ben considered the fact that a silver ring was more than many Confederate soldiers would have owned. Most of them simply wore their names on a piece of paper pinned inside their shirts. Before he’d left home, his own father had given him a brass disk with his name engraved on it but he’d long ago lost it.

How did you eventually decide you were Clarity Breckenridge? he asked.

She smirked at him. I didn’t just decide. Dr. Meadows—he was one of the field doctors—saw my letters and my ring before he sent me to the hospital. After I’d been in the hospital for a couple of weeks, he came by and recognized me. He remembered my name.

And you just believed him. He could have told you that you were Mary Lincoln.

She smirked again. My memory eventually came back. I fell out of my hospital bed one day and hit my head on the edge of a table. After the dizziness went away I remembered I was—am—Clarity Breckenridge.

How convenient that another bump on the head could bring back your memory.

Dr. Meadows told me that’s how amnesia works sometimes. She huffed out an impatient breath. Are you done interrogating me yet?

He continued to study her, not quite sure he believed any of her story just yet. How did you come to be at Nashville? That’s a good ways for a young lady from Blue Leaf, Kentucky.

She rolled her eyes but answered, I started out with Buell’s army at Perryville. I just followed orders after that and went where I was told to go.

He swept his gaze over her. He couldn’t tell much in the darkness beneath the trees but by her slight figure and her voice, he thought she must be pretty young. What were you doing with Buell’s army? Nursing, cooking?

I was a soldier and I did the same as all the other soldiers. I fought for the Union. She paused only a moment before saying, You’re a Rebel.

I fought for the Confederacy, yes. But the war is over as far as I’m concerned. I just want to get back home.

With my horse.

With my horse, he corrected. And right now, I’m too tired to debate the matter any further.

But—

Where’s the horse you rode in on? he interrupted again. You didn’t walk here from Blue Leaf.

Her only answer was another muffled huff of air. Ben glanced back at the clearing. He could see his mare and the Arabian standing close together now in a patch of moonlight. There was no other horse in sight.

Damn thing ran off, the young woman finally admitted. I left him about a quarter of a mile back and he must’ve spooked over something. He was practically good for nothing anyway.

Ben shook his head. Some people shouldn’t be allowed out at night on their own. If she couldn’t hold onto her own horse, she was one of them.

Why don’t you get some sleep? he said. He hurt and he was tired and he just wanted to rest. When the sun comes up I’ll show you that bill of sale and we can discuss the situation over a cup of coffee.

Several seconds passed before he caught the movement of her blonde head.

All right, she said. We’ll discuss it in the morning.

Guilt nibbled at Ben’s conscience as he lay down on his bedroll and pulled the blanket and his duster over his body. It was a cool summer night and his captive must be uncomfortable sitting up against that tree. But he sure as heck didn’t want to give up his blanket or his coat.

Rising stiffly, he grabbed the saddle blanket he used on his mare and carried it toward her. She watched him approach but didn’t say anything as he draped the blanket over her upraised knees.

You’re welcome, he said when she didn’t thank him. The only response he heard was a muffled grunt. Shaking his head, he retrieved his rifle from where he’d left it against another tree, checked on the horses and then returned to his own blanket and lay down facing her. He pulled his duster over his body once more and then drew half the blanket over that. He listened to her boot heels slide against the cold grass as she tried to shift her body into a comfortable position but his guilty conscience had been appeased. Women who dressed like young men and entered the army were capable of anything. He didn’t quite believe her story and if she wasn’t who she said she was, then she was a liar and possibly a confidence man, too.

Confidence woman, he corrected himself. There were sure enough of them around these days, too. Women who’d fallen on hard times but were smart enough to get what they needed out of the unwary.

He closed his eyes and tried to get comfortable. Dawn was still a few hours away but he knew he wouldn’t sleep for a while. Drifting off never came easily anymore. In addition to the physical aches from his wounds too many bad images shot through his mind whenever he closed his eyes to sleep. A captain in the Confederate States Army, he’d served with Lee in the Army of Northern Virginia as part of a cavalry regiment from Texas. He’d seen a lot of bloody action. He’d seen men do terrible things to each other. To his disgrace, he’d done a few terrible things himself. Every one of them lurked in the back of his mind.

Trying to hold off the nightmarish images, he envisioned his family ranch back in Texas—deep golden-green grasses that covered gently rolling hills, clusters of cattle and fields of corn, the solid limestone and timber house that his parents had built. Longing rolled through him. He hadn’t set foot on his home soil in better than three years and he was in a hurry to get back there.

Not that anyone waited there for him any longer.

Shifting his legs, he tried to get more comfortable and turn away from the loneliness that shot through him at the thought of his empty home. He was torn between longing to get there and dreading the sight of his parents’ graves. But he had no choice. Family duty required that he deliver that stallion. His friend, John Grayling, had married Ben’s cousin a few years earlier and the two had turned their ranch into a successful horse breeding venture. Gray and Jenny had supplied the Confederate Army with many horses. But their stock had been depleted and they were trying to rebuild it. Almost immediately after the war, they’d been contacted by the U.S. Army to provide horses for the cavalry and they needed fresh breeding stock. Gray had asked Ben to look for a stud animal on his way back home. Sir Robin practically fell into his lap one night at the hotel in Blue Leaf.

Opening his eyes, he looked at the girl and pondered her story. He remembered Richard Lassiter, her supposed cousin. Big, brash and impatient, the man had appeared eager to get rid of the stallion and didn’t haggle much on the price. Ben appreciated that as it left him with plenty of money to make the trip back home. With weeks of travel ahead, Ben had set out from Blue Leaf two days earlier and tried to put his worries behind him. Too bad he had gained a new one now. If Clarity Breckenridge was telling the truth, would he have to return the horse to her?

She’s not telling the truth.

Rolling onto his back, he folded his arms over his chest and tried to sleep. He just wanted to get home, bury himself in his work at the ranch and try to forget about the war.

Not that forgetting could ever happen.

Tied to the tree, tired and frustrated and so close to her goal, Clarity wanted to scream. Richard—her cruel and selfish cousin—had done it to her again. Throughout their childhood he’d made it his mission to upset any plan she made, to get his hands on whatever belonged to her or her brothers. From toys when they were young children to her brothers’ ladyloves, Richard had pilfered or ruined whatever he could, with no punishment deterrent enough to stop him. She could well believe that this Rebel—this Ben Chandler—was telling the truth about how he’d come into possession of Sir Robin.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t taking back her horse. She’d raised Sir Robin since she’d received him as a young colt several years earlier. She loved that horse and was devastated to learn that he’d disappeared the same night her family’s home was torched and her parents were killed. After an exhaustive search, her cousin had found him and some of the other farm animals. He had housed the animals in the undamaged barn on Clarity’s family property. At least that was the story she’d been told when she finally made it home after the war. If only she’d gotten there three months earlier, before the fire, maybe she could have done something to save her folks.

Her brothers were reported killed in the war too, so it was up to her to rebuild her home. Although the farm was once a profitable tobacco farm, her father always dreamed of raising horses. After she’d received Sir Robin, she’d dreamed of that too. And she intended to do it no matter who got in her way.

Unfortunately, it looked like Ben Chandler stood squarely in her way. If he possessed a real bill of sale it might take her months to prove it was invalid. By then he would surely have taken Sir Robin to Texas.

Shivering, she used her bound hands to shift the smelly horse blanket up to her shoulders. Not caring about the animal odor, she appreciated the warmth. She couldn’t help appreciating, too, the small gesture of consideration the Rebel had made in lending it to her. Her old sack coat was lined and she wore another cotton shirt beneath it, but the night air was cool and penetrating. The blanket took away most of the chill. But her slight appreciation didn’t mean she was