Prologue
HAMILTON
Hannah’s Cowpens
South Carolina Colony
January 17, 1781
He must finish. He must. Stumbling, he fell to the damp earth of the maple swamp with theclick-slapof musket fire ringing through the cold dew, his breath billowing.
The smoke of guns and cannons dulled the first light, and the stinging scent of gunpowder poisoned the fragrance of winter.
He clung to the nearest tree, his back to the battle, dagger in hand. Blood from a saber slash stained his buckskin sleeve and pooled in his left hand.
The battle persisted not thirty paces hence but he collapsed, weary, as if fighting for days.
Finish, man, finish.
Hamilton’s conflict had begun with Lieutenant Twimball long before today. And with the breath in his lungs, it would end with Twimball. Here. Now.
For what that man had done. For the deeds done by all who donned the king’s redcoat.
Spots swelled and burst before his eyes, and his head seemed to float above his body. Clinging to his rifle with his good arm, Hamilton tried to stand, his damaged left wing wrapped around the tree. But his legs... his legs refused to obey.
Another volley of bullets drew his attention toward the battlefield. The British were charging as his brothers-in-arms retreated.
Trying once again to stand, he collapsed against the tree, a sliver of stationery fluttering past the corner of his eye. His letter! He dropped the dagger, then patted his left pocket, his finger protruding though a slice made by the edge of a sword.
The wind shuttled the solitary page over the cold, muddy terrain.
He must... retrieve it. Hamilton stretched, barely grasping the edge of the page with the tips of his fingers, then losing his hold as he toppled forward to the earth.
The fight waged above and around him. The shouts and cries of warring men clung to the bare January limbs as Hamilton Lightfoot faded away, dreaming of love, dreaming of her.
1
CHLOE
Present-Day Hollywood
August
You see, love stories never worked for her. She never got the guy. In life or on-screen. Instead, she died. In nearly every major role she landed.
Last year,Varietydubbed her “the queen of the death scene.” What a stellar endorsement.
But today she determined to do something different. Stop waiting for change and go for what she wanted.
Driving her ’64 red Mustang across Bel Air, the convertible top down, to the great Hollywood director Jeremiah Gonda’s home, Chloe had high hopes.
Easing up to a red light, she powered up the radio.
“What you want, baby, I got it...”
The wind caught the loose ends of her ponytail as a black BMW pulled alongside. The driver, with his cut and chiseled profile, stared ahead, then glanced toward her with a flirting, cap-toothed smile. When their eyes met, his grin faded and he faced forward.
Chloe snarled and boosted the music.
