“Both.”
He scoffed. “Haven’t you heard, man? We’re at war. You cannot be both.”
“Come, Hamilton, follow me.”
“You make no sense. I cannot follow you unless you tell me where.” As he drew nearer, his chest burned with a strange fire. Where anger had ripped and scorched, this sensation cooled and soothed.
The man’s eyes radiated a color Hamilton had never seen. “I cannot tell you where unless you follow me.”
“Then we are at a stalemate.”
The man’s chestnut hair hung down to his shoulders. He carried no bag and no weapon.
“I heard you say you cannot be forgiven, but indeed, it’s already been done.”
The flame in Hamilton’s torso swirled until his anger and anxiety submitted like an errant child.
“You’re a preacher?”
“Hamilton, come, follow me.” The man bent and wrote in the dust beside the pebbles with his finger. Overhead, the setting sun drifted behind the trees, but a blade of brilliant gold flashed through the leaves and, for a moment, blinded Hamilton. When he opened his eyes, the man was gone.
“My man, where have you gone?” Hamilton jogged to where he’d been standing, peering around. “Is this a magician’s trick? You cannot have just vanished.”
The sun continued its path west, sending a solo, bright ray across his face. Hamilton shaded his eyes and moved to the shore. There he found a single word scripted in the dirt.
Forgiven.
ESTHER
Esther sat by Slathersby’s library window, needlepoint in hand, using every last muscle to give Father the appearance of composure while she tamed her roiling, tempest sea.
Hamilton had rejected her. Off hand, as if she meant nothing to him. Well, she refused to be so easily dismissed. She was one of two in the relationship, and though a man, Hamilton did not have the one and only say.
She’d given him a week to collect himself and think about what he’d said. When he didn’t send word to meet at the willow, she sent Kitch to Quill with a note of her own.
Can we meet at the willow? Sundown.
Sailing home, the very idea of seeing him gave her courage when the waves rose on the Atlantic. If he believed his actions at King’s Mountain were enough to deter her, he would soon learn different.
Her eyes blurred as she worked her needle. Two hours had passed since Kitch left. What was keeping him?
At last, the boy trotted up the drive on Gulliver. Esther set her needlepoint aside and reached for her shawl. “Goodness, I’m falling asleep as I sit. I think I’ll step outside for some fresh air.”
“’Tis a fine idea.” Father set down his quill. “I think I’ll join you.”
“I’m not sure how far I’ll walk. Can your knee go the distance?”
Father chuckled and patted his right knee, impaired during the Seven Years’ War. “My knee is capable of whatever I command. I’m too young to be old. I’m only forty-nine.”
He joined her on the veranda, and Esther found no way of escape. No valid excuse to leave him behind. Until she saw Kitch leading Gulliver into the stable.
“I feel in the mood to ride. Gulliver is in need of exercise.”
“Riding?” Father patted his ribs and filled his lungs. “What a splendid idea. I’ve not taken a leisurely ride in quite some time.” He offered Esther his arm. “Shall we? No need to change into our riding kits.”
She grimaced, slipping her arm through his. There was no escaping him today. At the stable, Kitch glanced toward her as he removed Gulliver’s saddle.
“Saddle up Barnabas and Gulliver, Kitch,” Father said. “We’re going riding.”
