Several moments passed before Seth Torrance realized the pounding in his head was echoed by a pounding on his bedroom door. Groaning, he turned away from the sound, only to get a face full of blazing sunlight.

What time was it?

“Major?” The voice on the other side of the door was familiar. Nevertheless, four years away from home, combined with at least four glasses of whiskey, made Seth’s mind a muddle.

“Sir? Your mother requests your presence at the dinner table.”

Dinner? Damn. He’d slept through breakfast--again. His mother would not be amused. But she so rarely was.

Honoria Simons Torrance found precious little to laugh about in this world. Once, Seth had wondered why his mother never smiled. The war had changed that. Now he found precious little to smile about either.

“Major?”

The identity of the speaker came to Seth with such blinding clarity he winced, or maybe that was just the sun in his eyes.

Beckworth. The butler.

Seth had known the man for years. Why couldn’t he seem to recall anything clearly from the time before he’d put on the Union Blue? Perhaps because the four years he’d spent at war were so much more vivid to him than anything the present had to offer.

More horrible, true, but the shouting, the shooting, the crying, the dying still lived in his mind and in his dreams. Seth had hoped to recover at home, in a place that he knew surrounded by those who cared about him. Instead, he’d only gotten worse.

“There’s a letter for you, sir,” Beckworth continued as if Seth had answered. “From Virginia.”

Virginia? The only person he knew in Virginia was--

Seth sat up. The room spun. The canons boomed inside his head. He wanted to lie down and stay there forever. But Beckworth had at last lit on the one thing that would get him out of bed so early in the afternoon.

Henry. His best friend from their days at West Point.

When they’d graduated, twelve years ago, Seth had returned to the North, Henry to the South. By then the tensions that would lead to the war had already begun to rear their ugly heads. Seth hadn’t seen or heard from Henry since.

He’d often thought of him, wondered where he was, how he Now the war was over and Henry had contacted him. For the first time in years, Seth looked forward to something-- opening that letter.

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his head, Seth stumbled across the room and opened the door. “Hand it over.”

Beckworth’s long nose twitched and his nearly non- existent lips tightened. But he said nothing.

Seth hadn’t shaved for several days; he hadn’t bathed either. He’d slept in his clothes and fed his nightmares with whiskey. He must look as awful as he felt and that wasn’t easy.

When Beckworth continued to stare at him without moving, Seth snatched the missive from the gold tray perched on the butler’s gloved hand. He wanted to sneer at the uselessness of it all, but he’d discovered one thing in the last four years. Sometimes honor and tradition were all that stood between a man and a monster. Funny, but at times they were what made a man into a monster, as well.

Seth shook off the memories and glanced at the envelope. He frowned. The letter wasn’t from Henry after all but from an attorney named Arthur Blair. Seth didn’t know him. He had a feeling he didn’t want to.

Ignoring Beckworth, who hovered in the hall waiting for . . . Seth wasn’t sure what, he tore open the envelope.

As if they had a premonition of the words contained therein, his fingers trembled as he withdrew the paper.

May 1, 1865

Dear Major Torrance:

I regret to inform you of the death of your friend, Henry Elliot, at Saylor’s Creek.

However I would not be writing you this letter had not his wife, Georgina, followed him to our Lord yesterday following the birth of his child.

Mr. Elliot’s final wish was that you, Major, become the guardian of all that was his. His will and testament in this regard are in my keeping.

Please come posthaste to the Elliot farm outside of Winchester in Frederick County, Virginia.

Sincerely,

Arthur Blair

Attorney at Law

The trembling in Seth’s fingers spread throughout his body. He collapsed into the nearest chair.

“Major? Sir? Bad news? Shall I--?”

Seth slammed the door on Beckworth’s questions.

Blessed silence filled the room. Too bad his head still pounded with the force of Confederate artillery.

Henry was gone. Seth found the tidings hard to believe, despite the hundreds of thousands of casualties. But then his friend had always been so much more alive than anyone else.

Henry laughed louder, rode harder, shot straighter. At West Point he’d been near the top of their class while Seth had wallowed near the middle. Of course when the call came to war, it hadn’t mattered where they’d placed on the list. Hell, look at Custer. Autie had finished at the bottom of the pile and it hadn’t hurt him any.

But to lose Henry at Saylor’s Creek--a horrible battle so near the end of a horrible war.

Seth got to his feet, crossed the room and reached for the whiskey again. But instead of drinking, he peered out the window, ignoring the pain in his eyes and his head, intensified by the bright and shiny sun. He stared at the loud and boisterous streets of Boston; he didn’t really see them.

He had been at Saylor’s Creek, too. Had one of his bullets ended Henry’s life? Seth would never know, so he would always wonder.

He thought back to the glory days before the war--back when everything had been simple, back when honor and duty didn’t get men killed. He and Henry had been as different as two friends could be--one a Boston bred, wealthy Yankee, the other a Virginia born, land rich, money poor farmer-- but they had agreed on two things. Duty raised men above the beasts and honor elevated mere men to heroes.

Did he still believe that? Seth wasn’t sure. But there was something he did believe. True friends were forever. Henry had entrusted him with his most precious possessions, his child and his farm.

Seth placed the bottle back on his nightstand untasted, then called for a bath. He couldn’t very well go to Virginia like this.