“I had a good time.”
“Me too.”
As the taillights disappeared around the bend, Jesse jogged across the road to the beach, toward the song of the waves, the essence of Chloe Daschle resting on him. Maybe, just maybe, he was finally beginning to heal.
ESTHER
Shouting resounded from the library below. Stirring, Esther tried to push up in the bed, but the pain cutting across her shoulder forced her back to her pillows.
“Father? Sassy?”
Sassy appeared at her bedside. “You’re awake. Thank the Lord. I’ll get you some broth. Dr. Rocourt done been here and said to keep your arm still.”
The dimly lit room was warm. Too warm. Esther’s nightdress clung to her damp body, and the blankets were tucked too tightly about her legs. At the window, a slight touch of daylight crept around the edge of the drawn draperies.
Voices carried up from the library again.
“... that’s preposterous. They fired... us. My word...”
“Good people... Loyalists... the Crown... my daughter among them.”
“Rebels... not to be trusted.”
“Who fired... daughter?”
“... I saw him... my own eyes.”
“... hold you responsible...”
Footsteps hammered across the floor. The front door slammed.
“Who is with Father?” Esther tried to push upright again. “Please, Sassy, open a window. And blow out these candles.” Tiny flames flickered from nearly every corner of the room and from every surface. “Am I a loaf of bread to be baked in the oven?”
“Your father feared you’d catch a summer cold. He ordered the candles and blankets.” Sassy opened the draperies and shoved up the sash.
“Who is quarreling with Father?”
“Lieutenant Twimball.”
“Lieutenant Twimball.” A blurry memory of him swept across Esther’s conscious. Yes, the funeral. The fight. “Th-there was a skirmish in town.”
“Three days ago.”
Esther pressed her hand to her shoulder. “I-I was shot.”
Sassy finished blowing out the candles and adjusted Esther’s bedding. “Mr. Lightfoot say Lieutenant Twimball what done it. But ol’ Twimball insists Lightfoot took cover behind you.”
“Hamilton would do no such thing. Nor cause me any kind of harm.” A thin, June breeze drove the heat from the room and the cobwebs from Esther’s senses. Her shoulder and back throbbed something fierce.
“That’s what I says.” Sassy offered Esther a cup of water. “But no one is asking my opinion. Twimball came to accuse Lightfoot, but your father gave him the dickens about there being a fight in town in the first place. At a funeral, of all things.” The Sassy checked Esther’s bandage. “You’ll need a changing soon.”
“Has he been to see me? Hamilton?” Esther kicked at the blankets, freeing her legs, a restlessness trapped in her bones. “Sassy, I’m perspiring through my gown. May I have a clean one?”
“You perspiring because you got hit with a bullet. Don’t worry, I got it out. Dr. Rocourt say I’d make a fine surgeon.” Sassy ladled more water into the cup. “Imagine me, a colored woman, cutting on folks.”
Esther sipped the water, fractured images floating across her mind.
Reverend Lightfoot’s funeral. Theclick-slapof musket fire. The burning scent of gunpowder. Running foolishly into the center of it all. Hamilton calling her name. The jolt and burn of a musket ball ripping through her.
