He urged his horse onward.
His boyhood rambles mapped the fields, streams, and woods in his soul, but when he passed the bend in the path that signaled the boundary between Ithwick and Pensteague, for a moment, he was lost.
Land that had been nothing more than unculturable waste had been transformed into lines of wooden pens around a neatly-thatched cottage. The sun broke through low-hanging clouds, glinting off the cottage’s white-washed walls and twinkling in the glassed windows.
A charming, if startling, sight...but what—he wrinkled his nose—wasthat scent?
Chev spotted a man hefting a log, setting it into a broken space in a fence. The man wiped his brow beneath his hat and set his gloved hands on his hips.
“Hello,” Chev called out.
At the sound of Chev’s voice, dogs raced from behind the cottage, barking and snarling. His horse neighed and bucked. He landed on the ground with a thud, still tethered to the rein by the brace he’d fastened to his upper arm.
Two dogs—with dripping fangs bared—charged closer.
The man whistled. The dogs skidded to a stop.
He tested his shoulder. Bruised, but not broken.
Lucky enough, though not the most auspicious homecoming.
“Are you hurt?”
Chev squinted down the road. With a rolling shock equal to his fall, Chev recognized the man’s sailor-step, his high cheekbones, his churned-mud gaze that missed nothing. Trusted nothing.
Emmaus.In shock, he nearly spoke the man’s chosen name.
One of his men, at least, had survived.
Emmaus had spent his youth as a maritime pilot, guiding merchant ships through the shifting shoals off the coast of the Carolinas...and, occasionally, connecting men and women searching for freedom with captains willing to take their coin.
When caught with runaways, he’d been sent to the Caribbean. Three grueling years later, he joined the British Naval Fleet.
What the devil was he doing at Pensteague?
Emmaus kneeled. “Can you speak?”
“Yes,” Chev replied, adding intentional roughness to his voice.
Emmaus’ gaze held his. “I apologize for my dogs.”
“No matter.”
Emmaus gripped Cheverly by the elbows, helping him rise. “Hungry?”
“Do you always greet travelers this way?”
“‘For I was hungry, and you gave me food,’” Emmaus answered. “‘I was thirsty, and you gave me drink. I was a stranger...’”
“‘...and you welcomed me,’” Cheverley finished the scripture.
“Will you join me?” Emmaus asked.
“If you will have me.”
“Wanderers are welcome at Pensteague.” Emmaus assessed Chev’s clothes, his face. “I will extend that welcome to you, not to put you at ease, but to assure you that you need not lie. Anyone hungry enough lies.” Emmaus nodded toward the horse. “There’s a shelter for him behind the cottage. For you, Mr.—” He paused.
“Captain...Captain Smith.”
