The image of marriage I have in my head? For some reason, you’ve set up house in that dream, and I can’t imagine any of it without you.
I have no idea if you’ll ever read this. Which is why I’m bearing my raw, naked heart. But if you do read this, please let me know. Even if the answer is, “Chloe, move on.” I promise not to go nutso on you.
But think, pray, about what I’m saying. Can you forgive your past and move on with me?
Affectionately yours,
Chloe
HAMILTON
Here, let me help you.” His wife of five years, now pregnant with their first child, eased the prosthetic from his leg. “Your skin is raw, dear. Let me get my liniment.”
“What would I do without you, Lydia?”
“Rub on your own liniment?” She sparkled when she smiled, her brown eyes flecked with gold light. Once again, she stole another piece of his heart.
“I suppose I should learn your technique. Once our child arrives you’ll be too busy to bother with me.”
“You will always be my first duty. Our children will thank me for it.” She rose up on her knees and kissed him without shame. Hamilton breathed in her beauty.
“I will thank you for it.” He returned her kiss, gratitude sweeping his heart.
She was God-sent. A rare jewel. And she was his. Though how he’d won her heart when he walked in his darkest days remained a mystery.
The daughter of the preacher who’d come to Ninety Six to take Uncle Laurence’s post was made of iron.
Lydia removed a bottle from the leather case she carried with her wherever they went, full of remedies and rubbing oils, as well as her much-read Bible.
“What has God given you for tonight?” she asked.
“My usual. Do I have another string on my instrument besides ‘Come, follow Me’?” He’d spend a lifetime studying the depths and riches of those three little words.
“Your leg is swollen and bruised. You’ve been standing too much.” Lydia peered up at him. “It’s time to go home.”
“This is our last stop.”
They’d been bound for Quill Farm and South Carolina when a last-minute invitation came from a First Presbyterian parishioner, Charles Dinsmore, a fellow South Carolinian and war veteran. Hamilton felt bound by love to yield to the man’s request and traveled north to New York.
“Mr. Lightfoot.” A fresh-faced young man peeked around the door. “There’s someone to see you.”
“Can you ask them to wait?” Lydia capped the liniment bottle and reached for a balm made of crushed roses and lavender. “Mr. Lightfoot needs his rest before preaching.”
“Begging pardon, my dear.” Hamilton sat forward. “It might be someone who needs ministering.” To the young man: “Is it a soul in need of assistance? Or perhaps the reverend? Ah, of course, it might be Charles Dinsmore.”
“They say they are the Hobart family, sir.”
He exchanged a glance with Lydia, who squeezed his hand and spoke to the young man. “Tell them we’ll be right out.”
“Do you know the Hobarts?” Lydia smoothed the warm oil over his half leg.
“I do not. Perhaps they’ve come for some prayer. Or aid.” When his wife finished, Hamilton stood, now an expert at balancing on one leg. Lydia retrieved the crutch from her wonder bag and quickly assembled the pieces.
“Go on,” she said. “I must wash my hands.”
Hamilton turned to go, then reached back, bringing his wife to him for a kiss. “Thank you.”
She pressed her hand to his face. “Any time, my dear.”
