MAGGIE DALLEN
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
About the Author
ONE
Amber
ONE MONTH LATER...
SO I WAS the bad guy now, right?
Of course I was. Everybody said so.
But was that really any reason to snub me at my first Hollywood event?
“I’m sorry, miss,” the oversized bouncer said again.
“You don’t look sorry,” I shot back.
His expression didn’t alter, not even a little bit.
I sighed but rallied quickly, flashing him the sort of sugary sweet smile that had made me beloved by every girl and guy in my hometown since I’d moved back six months ago. I’d been all too happy to leave the pathetically small town of Pinedale Montana in my dust the moment the contracts were signed and the check from the Devereaux production company cleared.
“Pretty please?” I asked with my hands clasped together in front of me.
Either pretty smiles didn’t work in LA or this guy was being paid too well to care. The man was a brick wall between me and the
party raging in the courtyard behind him.
“This is myparty,” I said, all smiles gone now. “It’s in myhonor.”
Well, it was our party. In our honor. Me and Brandon and the other soon-to-be stars of the reprised hit TV drama Love on the Range.
But whatever, it didn’t matter because my statement was met with a blank stare, and I counted twenty ways I would make this guard’s life a living hell once word got out that I was the new leading lady of what was already being hailed as the primetime drama of the decade.
I was going to be a star. That was the deal I’d made with Lila, and tonight’s party was to announce the show and its cast, led by Brandon and me. “I have to be in there,” I said, jabbing a finger toward the party. “They’re going to announce me any minute now and… I haveto be there.”
I hated the desperation in my voice, but then again, this was the moment I’d been waiting for. It was why I’d agreed to go back to Pinedale to spy on my former friend, and it was why I’d gone above and beyond to make sure that the Devereauxs didn’t screw me over.
And, of course, they’d tried. When Lila’s father’s people had contacted me about being paid to get Brandon to Hollywood, no one had told me that I was backup. I was just a mole. A spy. His precious daughter Delilah—better known as Lila—she was sent as well. She’d been sent to compete with me. Both of us had one objective and something to gain.
And she’d almost won.
Luckily for me, I was about a hundred times smarter than Lila, and I’d discovered what her father had offered her. The leading role. For me, he’d merely offered money and a walk-on part with two lines. As if Lila was a real actress. As if that girl could act her way out of a box. Please.I was the actress here, and not just in real life, although I had no problem using my skills there either if it meant getting my way.
No, I’d spent my time in New York working as an extra, taking crappy commercial parts, modeling for creeps, and sleeping with disgusting directors who’d promised to help my career. All so I could
find a way out of the hellhole that was my life. Sure, I could have found a real job, but it wasn’t like there were a ton of opportunities for a high school girl, and I wasn’t born to be a fast-food worker. Everyone I’d ever met was always telling me how pretty I was. How I should be a model. So, I’d done it.
I’d paid my dues in every way possible. A spoiled brat like Lila didn’t deserve to be a star. She was only good for one thing—being manipulated by people smarter than her, prettier than her, and with way more to lose. In this case? Me.
I glared at the ivy-covered gates that kept me out of my own party. This was her doing, I’d bet my life on it. Not adding me to the list just reeked of her particular brand of bratty pettiness. She no doubt expected me to call her in a panic, groveling to be let into the party that she’d helped plan.
I sniffed as I considered my options.
That girl wanted to play games? Fine. She could have her petty little vengeance, but we both knew that I would win in the end. Every. Single. Time.
I batted my eyelashes as I leaned over, exposing so much cleavage in my V-neck gown this goon could no doubt see my navel.
“If you could just tell Delilah Devereaux that I’m here—”
“She knows.” His gaze was unreadable as he stared me down. I dropped the smile. Lila knew I was here… and she was still keeping me out. My hands clenched at my sides. This just went beyond petty and straight into betrayal.
We had a deal.
Leaving now? That was not an option. I’d come this far from my crappy hometown, I sure as heck wasn’t about to turn and flee with my tail between my legs just because one braindead guard was acting as Lila’s lapdog.
I had pride, even if Lila didn’t. With that thought, I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, calming my rage. “If she’s aware I’m here, then clearly I was expected—”
“You were expected two hours ago,” he said, consulting some list that was on the concierge stand beside him.
Two hours ago, huh? If Lila Devereaux hadn’t realized by now that I was a girl who knew how to make an entrance, then she hadn’t been paying attention.
Not that I should be surprised. The girl was clueless.
I mean, she’d spent weeks in Pinedale and never realized that there was an enemy in plain sight.
Again… me.
Let’s recap, shall we? Lila was sent by her hotshot producer father to bring my childhood bestie, Brandon MacMillan, back to Hollywood to reprise a role on the TV show Love on the Range. It was a role that his father, Frank MacMillan, made super famous back in the day. Back before he died.
Everyone thought it was an accidental drug overdose that killed him, but if you paid as much attention as I did…? Well, secrets tended to stay not-so-secret in a town like Pinedale. I wasn’t sure how, but his crazy wife had something to do with it. Even I remembered the fights that broke out before he suspiciously died. On top of that, Brandon’s mom was totally certifiable.
And who was I? How did I fit into all of this? I was the girl next door, thank you very much. I was the sweetheart with the heart of gold and blah blah blah.
Please.
No one was that nice. Sure, I was a sweet kid back in elementary school, but all those losers at Pinedale High somehow managed to believe that I’d stayed that way even after my mom tore me away from the only home I’d ever known. Even after she ditched my good-for-nothing dad; even after she started shacking up with a creep who tried to mess with me so often that I started to sleep with a knife under my pillow. Even after I’d transferred to a public school in a bad neighborhood of a big city.
Even with all the crap I’d gone through, I came back to Pinedale for senior year and all those mouth-breathing idiots thought, ‘hey, Amber’s back. Must still be the same naive little girl we remember from fifth grade.’ Morons.
I didn’t even have to try to get back into the heart of Brandon’s social circle. All I had to do was move back into my old room at my grandparents’ ranch, which bordered his family’s property, and voila. I was in.
But why try to con an old buddy from my past, right? I know that’s what everyone’s thinking. Was I some cruel heartless witch who just wanted to take advantage of the sweet, misunderstood hometown hero?
Of course not.
I might have my faults, but I wasn’t heartless. I’d just figured out that I had to look after myself because no one else was going to. So, when Devereaux’s people approached me about getting close, promising me some immediate money but also a giant payday and my big break on-screen if I got him to go to Hollywood with me… of course I took him up on the offer.
What he didn’t tell me was that he was also sending his beloved daughter as well.
The moment she showed up in town, I knew what was happening.
I was just backup. I was the inside man he was using to get all the dirt on Brandon and his family while she swooped in and stole what was rightfully mine.
I didn’t think so.
So, I’d done what I’d had to do. It wasn’t like I hadn’t known for ages that Brandon was playing for the other team, and I honestly didn’t care. More power to him. I actually liked him more once I’d realized he wasn’t another dumb jock trying to angle his way into my pants.
The only people who didn’t seem to know he was gay were his bible-thumping mother and his hometown football buddies. I wasn’t even sure Jack knew, and Jack had been his best friend since forever.
It wasn’t exactly a giant leap to guess he wouldn’t want to be outed by the secret photo I’d taken of him and that loser buddy of his, Ryan. Brandon might have been kind and loveable, but he wasn’t dumb. He knew very well what this secret would do to his
already cuckoo-for-Cocoa-Puffs mom. She was a die-hard religious zealot, and finding out her son was gay would break her heart and no doubt push her over the edge, if she hadn’t made that leap already.
If I was Brandon, I would have ditched that town with its smallminded townsfolk, the crazy mom who’d gambled all their money away, and the dumb jock he’d been fooling around with who wasn’t nearly hot enough for a guy like Brandon.
So yeah, I’d known from day one about his little secret, and I’d honestly hoped I wouldn’t have to resort to blackmailing the guy to get my way. But… there you had it. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, and this girl?
She wasn’t about to be left behind in Podunk while spoiled Lila walked off with the grand prize.
She hadn’t won a month ago when she’d tried to steal my prize, and she wasn’t going to win now.
I crossed my arms, cutting off the guard’s view of my cleavage.
“Look, loser,” I said, dropping any pretense of politeness. “Just let me in and I promise I won’t tell your boss that you—”
“That’s enough, Amber.”
I spun around to see Tess walking toward me from the back entrance of the patio. “You might have wormed your way into this town with blackmail, but don’t let it go to your head.”
She came to a stop in front of me and I had to blink to register that this was still the Tess I’d talked to a handful of times in Pinedale. Granted, it had always been cloak-and-dagger with her, and it occurred to me now that maybe she’d been playing just as much of a role as I had.
Gone were the nerdy glasses and the oversized cardigan. Her hair was slicked back in a chic bun, and her black dress was simple but elegant.
She was elegant. All understated makeup and bare minimum jewelry. Her whole look made me feel gauche in my shiny, strapless red gown. My dark curls felt overly done and stiff, like I was a goddamn beauty pageant contestant.
Witch. She’d probably done it on purpose. I wouldn’t put anything past a Devereaux.
I jerked my thumb in the direction of the guard, hating the heat that churned in my belly and creeped up my neck. It was a mixture of rage and embarrassment. Shame. I might have signed the contract, aced the audition I’d filmed in my grandparents’ barn— even though we all knew I would have had to suck balls to not get the part. Blackmail was kind of lovely like that. But despite all that despite that I was here—I still wasn’t allowed in.
I was still the poor, lowly small-town hick with no parents to speak of, no friends who really knew me…
I was still on the outside looking in.
Literally.
“This is my night,” I hissed, ignoring the guard to lean in and jab a finger in her direction.
She didn’t so much as blink. “Then you shouldn’t have been late.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I am one of the stars; you can’t make the announcements without me.”
“She can, and she will,” another voice reached us, high-pitched and breathy, and so familiar it made my skin crawl.
I closed my eyes briefly and took a cool, calming breath. “Oh joy. It’s Lila.”
She was smirking hardcore by the time she joined us. “Something wrong?” she asked, all wide-eyed innocence as she came to a stop beside us.
I narrowed my eyes. “You did this.”
“Guilty.” She raised a hand that sparkled with diamonds, her skin glinting in the overhead lights with some sort of glittery powder or something. With her pale blonde hair wrapped around her head like a crown and her sheer gauzy dress—just see-through enough to be sexy, but simple enough to be sweet—she looked like a walking angel.
I wondered how many others here aside from me knew that she was actually the devil in disguise. Spoiled rotten, entitled, and dumber than a box of rocks, as my grandma used to say.
Though Grandma had said that about me, of course. The wicked old witch.
Lila looked from me to Tess. “What am I interrupting?” Her sweet, breathy voice grew hard. “Were you two pals reminiscing about old times?”
Tess rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh. “Let it go already. I said I was sorry.”
Lila shrugged and turned back to me, eyeing me from head to toe with a snotty little smirk that had my hands clenching at my sides. “Well, well. If it isn’t Podunk Barbie,” she cooed. “All dressed up like it’s the prom.”
My lips curved up in a sneer. “Trying to keep me out of my own party?” I asked. “That’s beneath even you, Lila. What would Brandon say?” I arched my brows, feigning innocence and falling right back into my role of Amber the sweetheart girl-next-door with ease. “Or maybe you two broke up. I mean, there were some rumors floating around about him and that guy… what was his name?”
I tapped my finger to my chin as if I was trying to remember. It wasn’t exactly a subtle reminder of our deal and what was at stake, but right about now? I wasn’t feeling very subtle.
Lila made a sound of disgust. “Ugh, please. This blackmail thing is getting old, don’t you think? It’s the twenty-first century, and Brandon lives in civilization now, not the backwoods hillbilly town you call home. It’s just a matter of time before he feels comfortable enough to come out of the closet, and you, my dear, will have to find some other way to get ahead.”
“I hear casting couches are all the rage,” Tess added mildly.
I let out a hiss, but I caught myself before I could snap back. These two were unbelievable. They’d been worthy opponents back in Pinedale when they were barely speaking and neither knew what the other was up to. But right now? Together? They could be dangerous.
But nothing I couldn’t handle.
“Thanks for the advice,” I said sweetly to Tess. “But I’ll let Lila take the first round on the casting couch if you don’t mind. After all, she’s not the one with the leading role on a TV show.” I turned to
Lila. “And we all know that the moment Brandon comes out of the closet—on his own or with my help—you won’t even have a celebrity boyfriend to flaunt.”
Lila rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Amber. You’re a one-note wonder at this point. Enough with the threats to Brandon.” Her gaze fell on me, and all pretenses of sweetness died. “Besides, you already got what you wanted.”
“What I want is to be let into this party,” I snarled. “Myparty. Or did you forget?”
“I did forget, actually,” Lila lied. She was back to playing the ditzy airhead. It worked for her. “I thought you were having so much fun in Pinedale that you decided to stay.”
I narrowed my eyes at the laugh she shared with Tess.
I smiled, my sweet girl-next-door smile. “Oh, I was having fun back in Pinedale.” I moved toward the gated entrance, pausing when I was right next to her. “Jack and I were having so much fun together with you and Brandon out of the picture.”
She froze, her face a mask, but before she did, I caught it. The hurt, the pain, the flicker of rage.
A surge of triumph had me smiling broadly at the guard and Tess. “I’ll be going inside to have my moment in the spotlight now.” I turned back to Lila with my best America’s Sweetheart grin. “You coming too, sweetie?”
TWO
Jack BRANDON’S HOUSE was creepy on the best of days. But ever since Brandon left without a word to me and just a brief note for his mother…
His mother’s house on the ranch had gone from creepy to the stuff of nightmares.
Walking into the house now on my way home from school, all I could hear was the sound of the TV on in the kitchen. It was always on in the background when I showed up. It was the only sign of life in the house.
I dropped a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter before rounding the corner to the living room. And there she sat, keeping vigil in front of the TV like she had been this whole past month.
“He told me to watch tonight.” She talked so low, it was hard to tell if she was talking to me or to herself. I glanced at the TV and saw one of the cheesy entertainment news programs. The kind that filled that void between game shows and primetime TV on basic cable.
The kind that her late husband Frank used to be featured on all the time.
Once upon a time, when I was a kid, Frank MacMillan’s smiling face had been everywhere I looked. On magazine covers at the checkout stands, on commercials, on trailers for his show, and splashed all over the world of entertainment news. I looked away from the screen.
These days, I still saw his face often… in my nightmares.
“Who told you to watch tonight?” I asked. I half feared she’d say Frank. Brandon’s mom had been toeing the line of crazy for as long as I could remember, but Brandon leaving had pushed her over the edge. She’d been talking about her dead husband a lot lately, and that was one of the reasons I dreaded coming over here.
But even if he wasn’t speaking to me, Brandon was still my best friend. And his mom had always treated me like part of the family, so checking up on her was the least I could do. Besides, someone had to look out for her while her son was off in LA with Lila.
“Brandon told me,” she said calmly—so calmly it was hard to tell if this was one of her good days or her bad. If Brandon really had reached out to her or if she was living in a delusion.
I picked up the scattered newspapers, the empty food wrappers. “You heard from Brandon?”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were glazed. I saw an empty glass beside her—cheap whiskey. No matter how many times I tried to clear her house of alcohol, she managed to find more.
I wondered if Brandon had known what he was doing when he’d left like he did. If he’d had any idea how much it would destroy what was left of her sanity. I wondered a lot of things about Brandon these days. Like why the hell he’d left without saying a word to me, his best friend.
At least, I had been his best friend.
My gut churned, my chest tightened. Brandon was the closest thing I had to a brother. The only real family I had aside from my dad. But he’d left without a word, and I had no idea why.
Amber said she didn’t know, but she’d been cagey and strange ever since Brandon took off. Not hard to understand why. She’d no doubt been just as hurt by his sudden departure as I had been by Lila’s. Amber had always had a thing for Brandon, everyone knew
that. And today… well, today, Amber wasn’t at school, and no one knew why.
I’d swung by her grandparents’ ranch on my way here. It was right next door, and I stopped by with the very real excuse that my dad had asked me to come over and see if they needed anything. An elderly couple alone on a ranch… my dad had a heart of gold and never failed to look after the locals.
They’d said they were fine, a little lonely now that Amber was gone but good.
So, now Amber was gone too.
Three friends gone in one month. And not one of them had thought to tell me why.
My chest burned with a sensation that wouldn’t go away, a mix of fear and shame and anger and… regret.
How much did Brandon know? What had he learned that made him flee like that? What had Lila said to finally get her way and make him leave with her?
I dropped some empty dishes into the kitchen sink and scrubbed a hand through my hair. I could chase these questions in a loop all night long, but it wouldn’t get me any new answers. I’d still be here, in Pinedale… and she would be gone.
The pain was so familiar one would think I’d have gotten used to it by now.
One would be wrong.
I was hurt by Brandon’s sudden departure and by his silence. I was surprised and a little bummed that Amber had left the same way.
But Lila…
I shut my eyes and clenched my jaw against the wave of pain that was so familiar but no less brutal no matter how much time had passed. It hurt today just as much as it had the night of the Sadie Hawkins dance when I’d watched her walk away.
I’d been such an idiot. Falling for the girl who I’d known from day one was only here to cause trouble.
I lifted my head and headed back into Mrs. Macmillan’s living room.
Lila had only come here for Brandon, and she’d made it clear that she’d take him back to Hollywood with her by any means necessary. I should have believed her.
“Brandon should be on soon,” his mother said as I headed toward the door.
I glanced at the TV screen and back to the woman who looked too old for her years. Her gray hair was long and unkempt, her face pale and ashen from too much time inside this house—inside this room.
“What else did Brandon say?” I asked, despite my better judgment. He’d left her a note saying he needed space. That he loved her but knew that she’d been lying to him, knew that she'd been keeping secrets.
But how much did he know?
That was the question haunting me, and I had no doubt it was the same question that kept driving Mrs. MacMillan to open up another bottle.
I knew Brandon was pissed at his mom, and that I could understand. I was almost certain he’d found out about her affair with Lila’s dad. And Amber had told me that he’d found his dad’s suicide note, so he knew his mother had lied to him about the accidental overdose.
But did he know the rest?
I stared at his mom’s profile in the flickering glow of the TV. Why had she even kept that note? I knew better than to ask. A question like that in the state she was in right now… It would be enough to send her into a spiral of angry shouts followed by endless weeping.
I’d seen her lose her grip on sanity too many times to count.
I’d picked up the pieces when she’d totally fallen apart. Luckily for her, it had been me there and no one else. I already knew her worst secret. But the question was… did Brandon?
Mrs. MacMillan turned away from the TV. “He and that devil’s spawn are going to be on TV.” She turned back to the TV, an unlit cigarette dangling from her fingers. “Satan’s whore,” she muttered.
“Brandon said he and Lila would be on TV?” Even as I asked it, I was mentally kicking myself for encouraging her. She was out of her
mind again, no doubt off those pills she was supposed to be taking.
“Frank would know what to say to him,” she said. “If he were here, he’d tell that filthy whore to keep her paws off my boy.”
I said nothing. I might hate the thought of Lila, I might despise the fact that after everything that had gone down between us she’d still walked away. With Brandon, no less. But I wasn’t about to agree that she was a filthy whore or Satan’s spawn or any of the other names Mrs. MacMillan called her.
She was spoiled, entitled, and… beautiful. Sweet when she wanted to be. I had to believe she’d had her reasons.
I muttered a curse under my breath. Who was I kidding? Of course she had her reasons. Those reasons were money, wealth, power, and fame. All the things she’d left behind when she’d come to Pinedale.
“Idiot,” I murmured under my breath as I cleared an end table full of dirty dishes. I was such an idiot. One month and I still wanted to hope. I was still trying to make excuses for her.
Amber was right. Lila had played us all. Me more than anyone. She’d strung me along and now…
I scowled down at the dishes in my hand.
And now, Amber was gone too. But where? And why the hell was Brandon still not returning my calls? What had I done that he wouldn’t even talk to me about it? Why would he trust Lila when he knew exactly what she was about—
“There he is,” Mrs. MacMillan breathed. “My Frankie is back.”
I winced. Frank wasn’t coming back. Frank was dead.
And I’d seen him die.
I glanced over at Mrs. MacMillan’s pale profile.
I’d seen her kill him.
The world believed that Frank MacMillan died of an accidental overdose. A few people knew that the overdose wasn’t an accident, but intentional.
Mrs. MacMillan hadn’t wanted Brandon to know even that much. She’d said it would ruin him if he knew his father had tried to take his own life.
There were only two people who knew the truth.
Frank MacMillan had tried to kill himself. He’d written the note, he’d taken the pills… but he’d failed. They’d found him before he died. They’d pumped his stomach and saved his life. He would have recovered. At least, there was a chance he would have.
Just like that, the nightmare was front and center. But it wasn’t a nightmare, it was a memory—one I’d relived more times than I could count.
My parents had brought me to the hospital to be there for Brandon. As Brandon’s best friend, I’d gone off alone to find him, but he hadn’t been in the waiting room, so I’d checked the hospital room. I’d had flowers for Mrs. MacMillan.
Sometimes, I’d swear I could still smell those damn flowers.
But Brandon wasn’t in the room when I got there and froze in the doorway because… Frank woke up. I was standing there in the doorway when he opened his eyes. When he’d looked at his wife.
I’d watched in silence as she’d lifted a pillow, as she’d placed it over his face—
I shivered despite the cloying heat in this stuffy, smoke-filled room. It was over. It was done. Those in the know believed it was suicide. His fans believed he’d caved to the hard-partying lifestyle of the rich and famous.
Only Mrs. MacMillan and I knew the truth. And now, she was talking to the man she murdered. I shut my eyes and then moved to her side to remind her again. “Mrs. MacMillan, your husband Frank, he’s—”
But she cut me off by pointing a finger at the screen, her eyes wide and a dreamy smile hovering on her lips. “There’s my boy.”
My boy. Now she was talking about Brandon. I followed her finger and froze.
For once, she wasn’t crazy. Well, she was, but she wasn’t delusional. Not about this. Brandon was there on the screen, on a stage or a red carpet or something. He was all dressed up, and then the camera moved back and…
The air rushed from my lungs. The sight of Lila on his arm, smiling up at him…
It was a sucker punch that left me reeling.
He was there, and she was there. And they were…
Oh God, they were together. Maybe I should have guessed. Maybe some part of me already suspected. But I hadn’t wanted to believe that he would do that to me. That she would do that to me. I’d thought they were just friends and…
Oh God, I was such a fool.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away even though my heart felt like it was breaking all over again at the sight of them there… together. A couple. Lila was wrapped around his arm and looking at him like he was the center of the universe.
The floor slid out from underneath me as the announcer’s voice filtered through my brain.
Brandon with his girlfriend. Brandon, Frank’s son.
Brandon who would reprise the role his father had made famous.
Lila had gotten everything she’d ever wanted.
And I… I wasn’t about to sit on the sidelines and watch. I shook my head as Brandon’s mom began to wail. “Oh Jack, you have to save him. The devil has him in her clutches.”
I held her by her arms, forcing her to meet my gaze. “She’s not the devil, Mrs. MacMillan.”
But she was close.
“She couldn’t force Brandon into doing anything he didn’t want to do.”
Unless she played dirty.
And I wouldn’t put it past her or her manipulative, powerful family to play dirty. Brandon had never wanted to be a celebrity, not even when he was a kid, acting on the show alongside his father.
He’d always said Hollywood and the acting life weren’t for him.
So, what changed his mind?
Who?
I didn’t have to look at the TV to see Lila’s pretty smile, her outrageous bravado, her ability to twist a guy into knots with a bat of her eyelashes.
“You have to help him, Jack.” Mrs. MacMillan was close to hysteria. Her eyes were wild and crazed. “You have to save him before he follows his father into a life of sin.”
I clenched my jaw against those words. Mrs. MacMillan had always had a way of twisting the past to fit her own story, to follow the narrative she’d created that had cast Frank as the villain and her as the helpless victim.
I didn’t believe Brandon was helpless, but I knew he was confused. And whatever it was that had driven him from Pinedale, it had left him vulnerable.
Easy prey for a manipulative witch like Lila.
“Please, Jack,” Mrs. MacMillan breathed.
I stared at the crazy old lady who’d haunted my nightmares for nearly a decade. I didn’t want to help her, but I couldn’t stop worrying about Brandon.
And I needed closure with Lila. I couldn’t keep going on like this, obsessing about her every morning, noon, and night. I needed answers. I needed to know why she left.
I needed to know if any of it had been real.
And if truth be told, I’d had this burning need, this impatience, this ache…
I had to see her. Just one more time. Then maybe I could get Lila Devereaux out of my system.
Turning to the TV, I shut it off before I had to hear any more about Brandon, or Lila, or that ridiculous TV show.
That ache ratcheted out of control, my rage and my hurt threatened to eat me alive. “Don’t worry, Mrs. MacMillan,” I said when I turned back to her. “I’ll go find Brandon. I’ll make sure he’s all right.”
THREE
Lila PERCHING on the stone wall that lined the courtyard of my Beverly Hills private school, I stared at Brandon as he stared at Richard. “Could you please try not to be so obvious?”
He turned to me with a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”
I rolled my eyes, but it was hard not to smile. I might have been miserable this past month, but at least taking Brandon out of Podunk had been a success. He’d thrived here, away from his mother’s crazy and the small-town, fishbowl lifestyle. With each passing day he seemed to be figuring out who he was away from the heavy memories of his father and the expectations to follow in his footsteps as the macho football-playing rancher’s son.
His gaze strayed away from me as he not-so-casually cast another glance in Richard’s direction.
I sighed but let it go, sipping on my bottled water instead. “Somebody’s in looove,” I said in a sing-song whisper, laughing softly as he blushed. For real, he blushed. A hint of pink crept up past the collar of his T-shirt and into his cheeks.
“You’re too easy to tease,” I said.
He grinned, unapologetic. He cast one last look over at the school’s most eligible gay boy. “I can’t help it. He’s so cute.”
“And he’s so into you,” I agreed. If Brandon wasn’t subtle about this burgeoning crush, then Richard was like a freakin’ billboard. All day every day, the short dark hottie was either casting longing looks in Brandon’s direction or outright flirting with him.
“You think?” Brandon asked.
I opened my mouth to remind him again of the deal he’d made with my dad. Well, the deal I’d made on his behalf. Brandon got all the fame and fortune he’d been promised, and I got to be his beard.
Yay for me.
The rest of the world might have been aware that this was the twenty-first century and that homophobia was lame, but my dad wasn’t exactly open-minded. Oh, he personally didn’t care what team Brandon played for, and he didn’t have anything against gay people. He even okayed a gay cowboy secondary character for the reprisal of LoveontheRange.He just didn’t think the housewives of America wanted an openly gay guy playing sexy cowboy Colt Ranger, the role that Brandon’s father made famous so many years ago.
So, the deal was, Brandon could do whatever he wanted in private. But in public? He and I were a couple. Which meant, no open flirting in the courtyard with Richard-the-gay-hottie.
I went to remind him of that, but the eager hopefulness in his gaze gave me pause. Brandon was so sweet, so kind. So oddly naive considering his family history. To remind him right now felt like kicking a puppy.
Instead, I said, “Yeah. I really think he likes you.”
I was rewarded with a goofy grin, the kind I’d never once seen from him back in his hometown. He moved to sit on the wall beside me, wrapping an arm around my waist. That was my cue that we had visitors.
Sure enough…
“Hey, you lovebirds,” Siobhan called out. She and my other bestie, Evie, were on their way over, their hips swinging in unison as they strutted their stuff, acting like they didn’t know that a handful of guys were watching their every move.
Evie gave me air kisses, a pretentious habit she’d picked up on her last trip to Ibiza with Siobhan. Siobhan still had a golden glow
from that trip—and from the tanning salon, no doubt. It was a trip I’d had to miss to go on Operation Lure Brandon in Pinedale.
I’d been so bummed to skip it, but now…
Well, now everything was different. I guess maybe I was different. For better or for worse. I forced a smile. “Hey ladies, what are you up to?”
I only half listened as they told me of their plans to head to a new club opening tonight. Brandon did a better job feigning interest than I did. So, you know, maybe it was for the best that he was the one who’d come to Hollywood for an acting gig. Me? I was right back where I’d started.
Still a pawn in Daddy’s games, still at his mercy, still a Hollywood socialite. But this time, it was worse. Because now, I knew what I was missing.
I held my breath for a second, as if that would block out a wave of pain as a memory of flashing, laughing eyes and a sexy smirk filled my mind’s eye. Images of teasing, laughing, bickering… kissing.
I closed my eyes. Shutitdown.
It was far too late for regrets. And besides… I opened my eyes to glance over at Brandon, my chest squeezing in an entirely different way. With affection. Friendship.
I didn’t regret my decision. It had been the right choice to help my friend.
Evie’s long red hair blew across her face and she swiped it away with a sound of disgust. “Hello. Earth to Lila.”
I blinked up at her. “Sorry, what?”
She and Siobhan exchanged a look I knew well. Once upon a time, that look would have annoyed the crap out of me. Who did they think they were to act like I was the odd man out, right?
But I was. These days, I totally was.
And I couldn’t bring myself to care.
My relationship with Brandon might have been fake, but the friendship was real. Funny how having one real, true friend could make it so very clear how pathetic all my other friendships were.
Siobhan narrowed her gorgeous green eyes into slits. With her stick-straight black hair and her sharp features, she looked like one of those paintings from ancient Egypt. A modern-day Cleopatra. And I wouldn’t have been surprised if Evie or I woke up with an asp in our bed if we ever got between her and what she wanted.
Which, right now, was Brandon. Not because he was so undeniably hot—though he was. No, Siobhan wanted him because he was the new hot thing at our school. Even if we were in LA, it wasn’t every day that a bona fide TV star joined our class. Being his girl was the social equivalent of being the first to snag a couture dress straight off the runway. I’d snagged the prize. The very gay prize.
Lucky me.
“So, are you coming?” she asked.
I didn’t miss the way her gaze flicked to Brandon. A freakin’ viper, ready to attack.
“Wish we could,” I said with a breezy tone I’d mastered ages ago. It was filled with condescension that belied my words. “But Brandon and I have a dinner date with Daddy.”
I wrapped my arms around his waist and smiled up at him. “Daddy is just so excited for filming to start next week.”
I saw the flicker of surprise in Brandon’s eyes before he masked it.
“Oh, well…” Evie sighed, already bored since the conversation wasn’t about her. “I guess we’ll see you at Moira’s party this weekend.”
Brandon and I blatantly ignored them as we gazed lovingly into one another’s eyes. It was a little game we played to see who could make the other crack up first. We’d decided from day one of this little ruse that we wouldn’t kiss or grope each other in public. Not that I had anything against PDA—a flash of hot hands, a hotter mouth, a bonfire. I gave my head a shake. Focus.
No, neither me nor Brandon were that opposed to PDA, but I think we both knew we wouldn’t be able to sell it. With all that he and I had been through, the secrets we’d shared this past month…
the thought of kissing him made me cringe. It’d be like kissing my brother or something.
So instead, we’d decided to embrace the role of sappily-in-love sweethearts. We were pretty much always holding hands or gazing into one another’s eyes.
Gross, right?
But it was better than having to feign some sort of sexy passion that neither of us felt.
We held eye contact even after they’d walked away. Brandon leaned in closer, a cheesy little smile on his lips. “I can see into your soul,” he hissed.
A laugh slipped out before I could stop it, and I shoved him away. “They’re gone.”
“You didn’t tell me we were supposed to have dinner with your dad.” His voice was edged with fear, and I couldn’t blame him.
My dad was… intense.
Brandon had been with me the day I’d come home. He’d been there when I’d negotiated the deal that got Amber what she wanted, kept Brandon’s secret safe, and left me with nothing.
My father hadn’t cared. He’d been the one to send Amber, after all. He’d just been disappointed in me for losing. He hadn’t tried to hide his disgust at having a loser for his daughter and…
Well, it really wasn’t the best way for Brandon to meet my father. He probably would have been intimidated by Daddy on the best of days, but seeing him lose his temper like that?
It wasn’t for the faint of heart.
But my father hadn’t been wrong. Really, I was the big loser here. I’d lost the starring role to Amber, and after all those weeks in Pinedale, all I had to show for it was a gay fake boyfriend.
And what I’d left behind…
I shoved aside the thought.
I had a Daddy dinner to prepare for, and now was so not the time to get all weepy about what might have been.
A honk behind me had me glancing over to see Tess waving from her BMW convertible. By the looks of it, she was talking on the phone with someone with her earbuds in.
“What time should I be there?” Brandon asked.
I gave him a little smile. This was why Brandon was such a good friend… and why he just might make it in this town after all. He was kind and a little too innocent, but he was brave. Despite his fear of my dad, he would show up tonight and have my back if I asked him to.
I shook my head and patted his knee. “You’ve done enough acting for one day. Take the night off.”
He frowned. “Are you sure?”
I nodded.
He pressed his lips together as he studied me, like he was making sure I was being truthful. “Come over after if you need to, yeah?”
I nodded, reaching for my bag. Brandon had definitely made out the best with this new deal. He was the next big Hollywood hero, he had his privacy while he came to grips with his sexuality and time to figure out how he was going to break it to his mom and the rest of the world. And on top of that, he had a place of his own that the studio had let for him and his tuition fully paid to my exclusive school.
Really, he’d made out like a bandit while I was still going back and forth between my dad’s mansion in the hills and my mother’s beach bungalow that she shared with her new boyfriend.
I sighed as I stood up and headed toward the stairs leading to the parking lot. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” he said. “And try not to kill your sister.”
I didn’t turn back, but held up my hand and wiggled my fingers, a little laugh escaping at his teasing.
Well, he was mostly teasing about me and Tess. We’d forged some sort of unspoken truce back in Pinedale, and even though she still annoyed the crap out of me at times, I now knew she wasn’t my enemy. Or even my competition.
I was still pissed she hadn’t clued me in about Amber, though. Always so secretive, my sister had just referred to having ‘sources’ in Pinedale, but she hadn’t told me enough that I could have protected myself and Brandon against Amber’s scheming.
Although, I believed Tess that she hadn’t realized what Amber was up to… but I still liked to throw it in her face and make her feel guilty. Did this make me a bad half-sister? Probably. But considering her failure to keep me in the loop had cost me the guy of my dreams, I was okay with that.
As I climbed into the passenger side, Tess eyed my prep school uniform… well, my version of it. The plaid navy skirt that I’d had hemmed so it showed off my killer thighs and the top that barely grazed my navel, thanks to my adjustments.
“I can’t believe they let you get away with that,” Tess said with a shake of her head.
I rolled my eyes. So typical Tess.
“You look like you’re heading to a strip club.”
I rolled my head against the back of the seat to look at her over the top of my sunglasses. “And you look like you’re heading to a funeral. What’s your point?”
She arched her brows as she put the car in drive. “What will Daddy say?”
I held her gaze evenly. “Let’s find out, shall we?”
THE SILENCE at the outdoor table was broken by the clinking of silverware as Daddy, Tess, and I pretended nothing was wrong.
I stared down at my salad, willing the burning sensation in my eyes to fade and the ache in my throat to ease. Nope. Nothing to see here.
Daddy’s latest wife, Vivien, was silent as well, but she was always quiet. Whether it was the pills she was always popping or the latest crazy diet she was on, the blonde, plastic bimbo was almost always lost in a vacant stare that gave me the creeps.
“Amber did well at the party last week,” Daddy said. His tone was civil, as opposed to a minute ago when he’d gone all Daddy Dearest on me for “looking like a whore.”
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plains, and as if by magic acres of territory would be luminous with them. Soon they would be surrounded by the soldiers, who made it an almost invariable rule to cook their coffee first, after which a large number, tired out with the toils of the day, would make their supper of hardtack and coffee, and roll up in their blankets for the night. If a march was ordered at midnight, unless a surprise was intended, it must be preceded by a pot of coffee; if a halt was ordered in midforenoon or afternoon, the same dish was inevitable, with hardtack accompaniment usually. It was coffee at meals and between meals; and men going on guard or coming off guard drank it at all hours of the night, and to-day the old soldiers who can stand it are the hardest coffee-drinkers in the community, through the schooling which they received in the service.
At a certain period in the war, speculators bought up all the coffee there was in the market, with a view of compelling the government to pay them a very high price for the army supply; but on learning of their action the agents of the United States in England were ordered to purchase several ship-loads then anchored in the English Channel. The purchase was effected, and the coffee “corner” tumbled in ruins.
At one time, when the government had advertised for bids to furnish the armies with a certain amount of coffee, one Sawyer, a member of a prominent New York importing firm, met the government official having the matter in charge—I think it was General Joseph H. Eaton—on the street, and anxiously asked him if it was too late to enter another bid, saying that he had been figuring the matter over carefully, and found that he could make a bid so much a pound lower than his first proposal. General Eaton replied that while the bids had all been opened, yet they had not been made public, and the successful bidder had not been notified, so that no injustice could accrue to any one on that account; he would therefore assume the responsibility of taking his new bid. Having done so, the General informed Sawyer that he was the lowest bidder, and that the government would take not only the amount asked for but all his firm had at its disposal at the same rate. But when General Eaton informed him that his first bid was also lower than any other offered,
Sawyer’s rage at Eaton and disgust at his own undue ambition to bid a second time can be imagined. The result was the saving of many thousands of dollars to the government.
I have stated that by Army Regulations the soldiers were entitled to either three-quarters of a pound of pork or bacon or one and onefourth pounds of fresh or salt beef. I have also stated, in substance, that when the army was settled down for a probable long stop company cooks did the cooking. But there was no uniformity about it, each company commander regulating the matter for his own command. It is safe to remark, however, that in the early history of each regiment the rations were cooked for its members by persons especially selected for the duty, unless the regiment was sent at once into active service, in which case each man was immediately confronted with the problem of preparing his own food. In making this statement I ignore the experience which troops had before leaving their native State, for in the different State rendezvous I think the practice was general for cooks to prepare the rations; but their culinary skill—or lack of it—was little appreciated by men within easy reach of home, friends, and cooky shops, who displayed as yet no undue anxiety to anticipate the unromantic living provided for Uncle Sam’s patriot defenders.
Having injected so much, by way of further explanation I come now to speak of the manner in which, first, the fresh-meat ration was cooked. If it fell into the hands of the company cooks, it was fated to be boiled twenty-four times out of twenty-five. There are rare occasions on record when these cooks attempted to broil steak enough for a whole company, and they would have succeeded tolerably if this particular tid-bit could be found all the way through a steer, from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail, but as it is only local and limited the amount of nice or even tolerable steak that fell to the lot of one company in its allowance was not very large. For this reason among others the cooks did not always receive the credit which they deserved for their efforts to change the diet or extend the variety on the bill of fare. Then, on occasions equally rare, when the beef ration drawn was of such a nature as to admit of it, roast beef was prepared in ovens such as I have already described, and served
“rare,” “middling,” or “well done.” More frequently, yet not very often, a soup was made for a change, but it was usually boiled meat; and when this accumulated, the men sometimes fried it in pork fat for a change.
When the meat ration was served out raw to the men, to prepare after their own taste, although the variety of its cooking may not perhaps have been much greater, yet it gave more general satisfaction. The growls most commonly heard were that the cooks kept the largest or choicest portions for themselves, or else that they sent them to the company officers, who were not entitled to them. Sometimes there was foundation for these complaints.
In drawing his ration of meat from the commissary the quartermaster had to be governed by his last selection. If it was a hindquarter then, he must take a forequarter the next time, so that it will at once be seen, by those who know anything about beef, that it would not always cut up and distribute with the same acceptance. One man would get a good solid piece, the next a flabby one. When a ration of the latter description fell into the hands of a passionate man, such as I have described in another connection, he would instantly hurl it across the camp, and break out with such remarks as “something not being fit for hogs,” “always his blank luck,” etc. There was likely to be a little something gained by this dramatic exhibition, for the distributor would give the actor a good piece for several times afterwards, to restrain his temper.
The kind of piece drawn naturally determined its disposition in the soldier’s cuisine. If it was a stringy, flabby piece, straightway it was doomed to a dish of lobscouse, made with such other materials as were at hand. If onions were not in the larder, and they seldom were, the little garlic found in some places growing wild furnished a very acceptable substitute. If the meat was pretty solid, even though it had done duty when in active service well down on the shank or shin, it was quite likely to be served as beefsteak, and prepared for the palate in one of two ways:—either fried in pork fat, if pork was to be had, otherwise tallow fat, or impaled on a ramrod or forked stick; it was then salted and peppered and broiled in the flames; or it may have been thrown on the coals. This broiling was, I think, the favorite
style with the oldest campaigners. It certainly was more healthful and palatable cooked in this wise, and was the most convenient in active service, for any of the men could prepare it thus at short notice.
BROILING STEAKS.
The meat generally came to us quivering from the butcher’s knife, and was often eaten in less than two hours after slaughtering. To fry it necessitated the taking along of a frying-pan with which not many of the men cared to burden themselves. These fry-pans— Marbleheadmen called them Creepers—were yet comparatively light, being made of thin wrought iron. They were of different sizes, and were kept on sale by sutlers. It was a common sight on the march to see them borne aloft on a musket, to which they were lashed, or tucked beneath the straps of a knapsack. But there was another fry-pan which distanced these both in respect of lightness and space. The soldier called in his own ingenuity to aid him here as in so many other directions, and consequently the men could be seen by scores frying the food in their tin plate, held in the jaws of a split stick, or fully as often an old canteen was unsoldered and its concave sides mustered into active duty as fry-pans. The fresh-meat ration was thoroughly appreciated by the men, even though they rarely if ever got the full allowance stipulated in Army Regulations,
for it was a relief from the salt pork, salt beef, or boiled fresh meat ration of settled camp. I remember one occasion in the Mine Run Campaign, during the last days of November, 1863, when the army was put on short beef rations, that the men cut and scraped off the little rain-bleached shreds of meat that remained on the head of a steer which lay near our line of battle at Robertson’s Tavern. The animal had been slaughtered the day before, and what was left of its skeleton had been soaking in the rain, but not one ounce of muscular tissue could have been gleaned from the bones when our men left it.
The liver, heart, and tongue were perquisites of the butcher. For the liver, the usual price asked was a dollar, and for the heart or tongue fifty cents.
The “salt horse” or salt beef, of fragrant memory, was rarely furnished to the army except when in settled camp, as it would obviously have been a poor dish to serve on the march, when water was often so scarce. But even in camp the men quite generally rejected it. Without doubt, it was the vilest ration distributed to the soldiers.
It was thoroughly penetrated with saltpetre, was often yellowgreen with rust from having lain out of brine, and, when boiled, was four times out of five if not nine times out of ten a stench in the nostrils, which no dedicate palate cared to encounter at shorter range. It sometimes happened that the men would extract a good deal of amusement out of this ration, when an extremely unsavory lot was served out, by arranging a funeral, making the appointments as complete as possible, with bearers, a bier improvised of boards or a hardtack box, on which was the beef accompanied by scraps of old harness to indicate the original of the remains, and then, attended by solemn music and a mournful procession, it would be carried to the company sink and dumped, after a solemn mummery of words had been spoken, and a volley fired over its unhallowed grave.
So salt was this ration that it was impossible to freshen it too much, and it was not an unusual occurrence for troops encamped by a running brook to tie a piece of this beef to the end of a cord, and
throw it into the brook at night, to remain freshening until the following morning as a necessary preparative to cooking.
Salt pork was the principal meat ration—the main stay as it were. Company cooks boiled it. There was little else they could do with it, but it was an extremely useful ration to the men when served out raw. They almost never boiled it, but, as I have already shown, much of it was used for frying purposes. On the march it was broiled and eaten with hard bread, while much of it was eaten raw, sandwiched between hardtack. Of course it was used with stewed as well as baked beans, and was an ingredient of soups and lobscouse. Many of us have since learned to call it an indigestible ration, but we ignored the existence of such a thing as a stomach in the army, and then regarded pork as an indispensable one. Much of it was musty and rancid, like the salt horse, and much more was flabby, stringy, “sow-belly,” as the men called it, which, at this remove in distance, does not seem appetizing, however it may have seemed at the time. The government had a pork-packing factory of its own in Chicago, from which tons of this ration were furnished.
Once in a while a ration of ham or bacon was dealt out to the soldiers, but of such quality that I do not retain very grateful remembrances of it. It was usually black, rusty, and strong, and decidedly unpopular. Once only do I recall a lot of smoked shoulders as being supplied to my company, which were very good. They were never duplicated. For that reason, I presume, they stand out prominently in memory.
MESS KETTLES AND A MESS PAN
The bean ration was an important factor in the sustenance of the army, and no edible, I think, was so thoroughly appreciated. Company cooks stewed them with pork, and when the pork was
good and the stew or soup was well done and not burned,—a rare combination of circumstances,—they were quite palatable in this way. Sometimes ovens were built of stones, on the top of the ground, and the beans were baked in these, in mess pans or kettles. But I think the most popular method was to bake them in the ground. This was the almost invariable course pursued by the soldiers when the beans were distributed for them to cook. It was done in the following way: A hole was dug large enough to set a mess pan or kettle in, and have ample space around it besides. Mess kettles, let me explain here, are cylinders in shape, and made of heavy sheet iron. They are from thirteen to fifteen inches high, and vary in diameter from seven inches to a foot. A mess pan stands about six inches high, and is a foot in diameter at the top. I think one will hold nearly six quarts. To resume;—in the bottom of the hole dug a flat stone was put, if it could be obtained, then a fire was built in the hole and kept burning some hours, the beans being prepared for baking meanwhile. When all was ready, the coals were shovelled out, the kettle of beans and pork set in, with a board over the top, while the coals were shovelled back around the kettle; some poles or boards were then laid across the hole, a piece of sacking or other material spread over the poles to exclude dirt, and a mound of earth piled above all; the net result of which, when the hole was opened the next morning, was the most enjoyable dish that fell to the lot of the common soldier. Baked beans at the homestead seemed at a discount in comparison. As it was hardly practicable to bake a single ration of beans in this way, or, indeed, in any way, a tent’s crew either saved their allowance until enough accumulated for a good baking, or a half-dozen men would form a joint stock company, and cook in a mess kettle; and when the treasure was unearthed in early morning not a stockholder would be absent from the roll-call, but all were promptly on hand with plate or coffee dipper to receive their dividends.
Here is a post-bellum jingle sung to the music of “The Sweet By and By,” in which some old veteran conveys the affection he still feels for this edible of precious memory:—
THE ARMY BEAN.
There’s a spot that the soldiers all love, The mess-tent’s the place that we mean, And the dish we best like to see there Is the old-fashioned, white Army Bean.
C .—’Tis the bean that we mean, And we’ll eat as we ne’er ate before; The Army Bean, nice and clean, We’ll stick to our beans evermore.
Now the bean, in its primitive state, Is a plant we have all often met; And when cooked in the old army style It has charms we can never forget.—C .
The German is fond of sauer-kraut, The potato is loved by the Mick, But the soldiers have long since found out That through life to our beans we should stick.—C .
Boiled potatoes were furnished us occasionally in settled camp. On the march we varied the programme by frying them. Onions, in my own company at least, were a great rarity, but highly appreciated when they did appear, even in homœopathic quantities. They were pretty sure to appear on the army table, fried.
Split peas were also drawn by the quartermaster now and then, and stewed with pork by the cooks for supper, making pea-soup, or “Peas on a Trencher”; but if my memory serves me right, they were a dish in no great favor, even when they were not burned in cooking, which was usually their fate.
The dried-apple ration was supplied by the government, “to swell the ranks of the army,” as some one wittily said. There seemed but one practicable way in which this could be prepared, and that was to stew it; thus cooked it made a sauce for hardtack. Sometimes dried peaches were furnished instead, but of such a poor quality that the apples, with the fifty per cent of skins and hulls which they contained, were considered far preferable.
At remote intervals the cooks gave for supper a dish of boiled rice (burned, of course), a sergeant spooning out a scanty allowance of molasses to bear it company.
Occasionally, a ration of what was known as desiccated vegetables was dealt out. This consisted of a small piece per man, an ounce in weight and two or three inches cube of a sheet or block of vegetables, which had been prepared, and apparently kiln-dried, as sanitary fodder for the soldiers. In composition it looked not unlike the large cheeses of beef-scraps that are seen in the markets. When put in soak for a time, so perfectly had it been dried and so firmly pressed that it swelled to an amazing extent, attaining to several times its dried proportions. In this pulpy state a favorable opportunity was afforded to analyze its composition. It seemed to show, and I think really did show, layers of cabbage leaves and turnip tops stratified with layers of sliced carrots, turnips, parsnips, a bare suggestion of onions,—they were too valuable to waste in this compound,—and some other among known vegetable quantities, with a large residuum of insoluble and insolvable material which appeared to play the part of warp to the fabric, but which defied the powers of the analyst to give it a name. An inspector found in one lot which he examined powdered glass thickly sprinkled through it, apparently the work of a Confederate emissary; but if not it showed how little care was exercised in preparing this diet for the soldier. In brief, this coarse vegetable compound could with much more propriety have been put before Southern swine than Northern soldiers. “Desecrated vegetables” was the more appropriate name which the men quite generally applied to this preparation of husks.
I believe it was the Thirty-Second Massachusetts Infantry which once had a special ration of three hundred boxes of strawberries dealt out to it. But if there was another organization in the army anywhere which had such a delicious experience, I have yet to hear of it.
I presume that no discussion of army rations would be considered complete that did not at least make mention of the whiskey ration so called. This was not a ration, properly speaking. The government supplied it to the army only on rare occasions, and then by order of
the medical department. I think it was never served out to my company more than three or four times, and then during a cold rainstorm or after unusually hard service. Captain N. D. Preston of the Tenth New York Cavalry, in describing Sheridan’s raid to Richmond in the spring of 1864, recently, speaks of being instructed by his brigade commander to make a light issue of whiskey to the men of the brigade, and adds, “the first and only regular issue of whiskey I ever made or know of being made to an enlisted man.” But although he belonged to the arm of the service called “the eyes and ears of the army,” and was no doubt a gallant soldier, he is not well posted; for men who belonged to other organizations in the Army of the Potomac assure me that it was served out to them much more frequently than I have related as coming under my observation. I think there can be no doubt on this point.
The size of the whiskey allowance was declared, by those whose experience had made them competent judges, as trifling and insignificant, sometimes not more than a tablespoonful; but the quantity differed greatly in different organizations. The opinion was very prevalent, and undoubtedly correct, that the liquor was quite liberally sampled by the various headquarters, or the agents through whom it was transmitted to the rank and file. While there was considerable whiskey drank by the men “unofficially,” that is, which was obtained otherwise than on the order of the medical department, yet, man for man, the private soldiers were as abstemious as the officers. The officers who did not drink more or less were too scarce in the service. They had only to send to the commissary to obtain as much as they pleased, whenever they pleased, by paying for it; but the private soldier could only obtain it of this official on an order signed by a commissioned officer,—usually the captain of his company. In fact, there was nothing but his sense of honor, his selfrespect, or his fear of exposure and punishment, to restrain a captain, a colonel, or a general, of whatever command, from being intoxicated at a moment when he should have been in the full possession of his senses leading his command on to battle; and I regret to relate that these motives, strong as they are to impel to right and restrain from wrong-doing, were no barrier to many an officer whose appetite in a crisis thus imperilled the cause and
disgraced himself. Doesn’t it seem strange that the enforcement of the rules of war was so lax as to allow the lives of a hundred, a thousand, or perhaps fifty or a hundred thousand sober men to be jeopardized, as they so often were, by holding them rigidly obedient to the orders of a man whose head at a critical moment might be crazed with commissary whiskey? Hundreds if not thousands of lives were sacrificed by such leadership. I may state here that drunkenness was equally as common with the Rebels as with the Federals.
The devices resorted to by those members of the rank and file who hungered and thirsted for commissary to obtain it, are numerous and entertaining enough to occupy a chapter; but these I must leave for some one of broader experience and observation. I could name two or three men in my own company whose experience qualified them to fill the bill completely. They were always on the scent for something to drink. Such men were to be found in all organizations.
It has always struck me that the government should have increased the size of the marching ration. If the soldier on the march had received one and one-half pounds of hard bread and one and one-half pounds of fresh beef daily with his sugar, coffee, and salt, it would have been no more than marching men require to keep up the requisite strength and resist disease.
By such an increase the men would have been compensated for the parts of rations not issued to them, or the increase might have been an equivalent for these parts, and the temptation to dishonesty or neglect on the part of company commanders thus removed. But, more than this, the men would not then have eaten up many days’ rations in advance. It mattered not that the troops, at a certain date, were provided with three, four, or any number of days rations; if these rations were exhausted before the limit for which they were distributed was even half reached, more must be immediately issued. As a consequence, in every summer campaign the troops had drawn ten or fifteen days marching rations ahead of time, proving, season after season, the inadequacy of this ration. This deficiency of active service had to be made up by shortening the rations issued in camp when the men could live on a contracted diet
without detriment to the service. But they knew nothing of this shortage at the time,—I mean now the rank and file,—else what a universal growl would have rolled through the camps of each army corps while the commissary was “catching up.” “Where ignorance is bliss,” etc.
