He’d tried again to write her a love letter after the Slathersby confrontation, but the words would not come. The course of putting his deepest emotions down on paper, exposing his heart for any and all to see, revealed vulnerabilities he cared not to navigate.
Besides, how could he pledge his life to her now when he’d pledged his duty to his country? Again Captain Irwin prevailed upon him to stay with the Upper Ninety Six, and Hamilton had agreed. He must finish what he started.
But for now he was going home. Tilly broke into a run, and Hamilton leaned into her motion, ducking as she ran straight into the barn and to her stall, touching her nose to Achilles’.
He found the sack of oats and scooped her a hearty dinner, grateful to find the barn stocked. Moses and Ox were skilled workers with resources even Hamilton did not have. They kept the hay loft full and the oat buckets brimming.
His stomach growled for his own dinner as he wiped her down, but first he needed a washing before he went inside Aunt Mary’s clean home.
Hamilton crossed the barnyard, the chickens clucking out of his way, then dropped his rifle, dagger, and cartridge belt by the well. His haversack slipped from his shoulder.
With care, he removed his shirt, the wind skirting past with the scent of fall, stirring the red, gold, and orange foliage—a beauty he once treasured. But now it was tainted with the blood of men. Of what he’d almost done.
He recoiled at the image of a Loyalist, a man not unlike him from up York way, surrendered, on his knees, begging and pleading for his life.
“Please... I have a family.”
“Hamilton!”
He swung around—Esther rode Gulliver into the barnyard, dropping out of the saddle and running to him, crushing herself into his chest. “My prayers have been answered. You’re home.”
Her soft, feminine touch collided with the hardness of the battle. Of bedding on the ground next to his fellow militiamen for four months, eating hardtack and rotting vegetables or fruit if it could be found.
“What are you doing here?” He shoved her away, holding her at arms’ length, her embrace stirring a desire in his loins.
“Why, to see you, silly.”
Hamilton drew a bucket of cold water from the deep well. “Was Kitch spying on me?”
“Spying? No. He saw you come around the bend.” She bent to see his face, her voice, her expression tender and beautiful. “How are you?”
“Home from battle. How do you think I am?” He did not want her tenderness, her kindness. No, he did not deserve such pleasantries. Not after peering into the depths of his own depravity. “I see your shoulder has healed.”
“Yes, very nicely. Sassy is pleased. It still hurts to lift my arm.” She demonstrated, trying to raise her arm over her head. “So, are you well? Your arm.” She reached toward his bandage. “We heard the surrendering American Loyalists were killed. In cold blood. Is it true?”
He spun to face her, dingy and foul in her clean, sweet presence. “Have you come to try me? To accuse me?”
“Accuse you? No, why would I—Hamilton, I only wish to welcome you home.”
“Does your Loyalist father know you are here? Did he not forbid you to see me?”
“I do not have to give him an account of my every action.” Her voice wavered with emotion, as if she might cry. “I told him I loved you. The night you rescued us.”
“I’m sure he had a hearty laugh at your foolishness.” Hamilton lowered the empty bucket into the well, resisting the crack her presence wedged in his countenance. He was angry, ashamed, and if it was all the same to her, desired to remain so. He needed the edge for the next battle. And to live with himself.
“H-how long are you home? Perhaps we might meet at the willow.”
“I’m home to help with the harvest.” He winced as he raised the bucket, the wound on his arm struggling to heal. Besides the slash, something had happened to his right shoulder in the course of battle as well, and it ached with every move.
Setting the bucket on the edge of the stone well, he scooped a dollop of Aunt Mary’s fine soap and scrubbed his face while Esther looked on. When he’d rinsed, he found he had no towel.
“Pardon me,” he said, turning his back and reaching for his shirt. Once white, it was stained with the dirt and grime in whichhe lived. What he’d become. “I cannot meet you at the willow.” Patting his face, he glanced at her over the edge of his hands.
“Not even once?”
Her eyes drifted back to his face, over his chest, and to the wound on his arm. He felt exposed. Could she see his heart beating? Feel the heat of his desires? Read the depths of his shame.
Why didn’t he step up, defend the surrendering Loyalists? Instead he just...
