“Chris, it’s all good.” Her eyes welled up and spilled over.
“I’m sorry you knew me during my jerk phase. But you’re one of the best people I know.” He gripped her hands in his. “It may look like you’ve had this subpar career, and God only knows why you kept getting cast as the girl who dies, but you’re alive, Chloe. I see it in you in a way I don’t see in any other people in our biz.”
“Chris, any day now!”
He smiled at Chloe. “Sheesh, you’d think the man was anxious to see his wife.” Chris wiggled his eyebrows, and she laughed softly.
“Thanks, Chris. I mean it.”
He kissed her forehead. “I love you, Chloe Daschle. Someday you’ll tell me about the light in your eyes.”
For a long time she stood alone beside the battlefield, watching the crew pack up. She scanned the winter grounds where the real Continental army, their forefathers, had laid in wait for the British. Where Jesse’s ancestor, Hamilton Lightfoot, was wounded and maybe—no one knew—lost the woman he loved.
“You think we’ll ever know what happened to Hamilton Lightfoot and the mysterious Esther?” Lori handed Chloe a Diet Coke.
“No.” Chloe popped the top of the cold can. And she may never know what happened to Jesse Gates. As light as she felt inside, she had a sinking sensation about him. “Hey, Lori, do you think unrequited love just dies? Like, goes away? Or does it try to find a home somewhere else, drifting through time until—”
“It dies. Trust me. If two lovers weren’t meant to be, their love has to die. Why would there be any remaining?”
“I guess.”
The unit manger made a face. “Pffft, but hey, don’t listen to me.I can’t figure out my own love life, let alone the essence of love and all its paths. Do you believe in true love?”
“Since I was born,” Chloe said.
“That’s a long time. You think you’ll ever find it?”
Chloe nodded. “Yeah, I think I already have.”
That day she met Smitty outside Expression58 and the women prayed for her. The day she went to the Cross. From there? Her possibilities were endless.
ESTHER
March
The spring morning bore the bone-chilling kiss of winter. The sun, a golden globe resting in the blue sky, shed no warmth on Slathersby Hill.
Worse, there was no warmth in Father, nor his library, despite the blaze in the fireplace.
Dressed in her traveling suit, Esther paced beside the window, watching as Isaac and Kitch tied her trunks to the top of the carriage, her hands pressed together, her thoughts in turmoil.
With an exhale. she whirled toward Father for one final argument.
“You cannot send me away.”
A month ago, Father announced his intention to send her to England. Idle threats in her estimation. But the tide of the war had turned, and the Americans were winning.
Correspondence had been coming in large piles from Lord Whatham, and Father spent long days at his desk, muttering to himself. Words likecapitalandaccounting. Then he’d call Isaac, and together they’d ride into town, inspecting Lord Whatham’s interests there. In the evening, men knocked on the door, demanding audience with Father, disputing raised rents and increased prices.
“Father? Do you hear me? I will, I must, determine my own path.”
He did not look up but dipped his quill in the ink bottle. “Since the rebels have gained more victories, I fear for your safety. Who knows what the rabble will do with an ounce of confidence. No, you must be away.”
“Yet you have no qualms about sending me out upon a dangerous, winter sea? Might I add, where Continental ships sail.”
“They will not fire upon a passenger packet.” Father stood, settled papers in a leather case, and made his way from the library.
She chased after him. “How do you know? Did they write? Send you a promise?”
