by Rachel Hauck
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 which he 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 . . .
“I’ve work to do here. And I’m still engaged with the militia.”
“Your devotion does you credit.” She took a step closer. “Your arm. What happened?”
He jerked away when she touched him. “What do you think happened?” To his own ears he sounded boorish and rude.
“You were struck by a sword or cutlass.”
He said nothing as he drew another bucket of water and soaked his head. “’Tis nothing,” he said, gathering more soap to lather his hair. But as he raised his arms, his shoulder popped and he buckled forward with a moan.
“Hamilton, let me help you.” Esther’s soft hands slipped over his bare shoulders, and he turned away. She was not helping. Not at all.
“Please, kneel down.” Esther took the soap in her delicate hands.
“Esther, I cannot—”
“I said kneel down. Didn’t the militia teach you to obey commands?”
“From a woman, no.” But he was weakened by her charms and dropped to one knee, then the other, exhaling.
At first he couldn’t feel her touch, but as she ladled more water onto his hair, her hands moved deeper, scrubbing, massaging his scalp. Her gentle yet firm movements drove him to distraction.
Tears smarted in his eyes and he coughed, hiding his emotion. Round and round her hands went, washing his hair. Washing his soul. Chills prickled around his neck and down his back.
As she ladled more water over his head, Esther sang a soft melody, rinsing away the soap, the dirt and mud, the blood, until the water flowed clean.
“‘The heavy hours are almost past that part my love and me.’”
He was yielding, surrendering, his tears mounting.
She began to sing another melody, gay and spritely. “‘Go rose, my Chloe bosom grace.’ I’m fond of the name Chloe. What do you think? So lovely for a girl.”
He listened, resisting her softness, her feminine allure. Using her own scarf, she began to dry his hair.
When she finished, he rose to his feet, snatching up his shirt, now damp and dark. “I-I should . . .” He motioned toward the house. “Go. Aunt Mary . . .”
Esther stepped into him, her dripping scarf in her hands. “Hamilton, don’t you want—”
“No. I don’t want . . . I cannot . . . What I’ve done. What I nearly did.” Gripping her arms, Hamilton searched for a way to tell her no, to admonish her to forget him, but he saw the affection in her blue eyes. Before he considered the consequences, he pressed his lips to hers.
She leaned into him, her hands moving around his chest to his back.
He dropped his shirt to the dirt and took her to himself, drinking in her pure, clean soul. But when a soft moan escaped her lips, he returned to reality. Hamilton jerked away.
“Esther, we cannot.” He shoved his hair back, stooping to collect his haversack and cartridge belt.
“We cannot what? Declare our affection?” She was soaked and soapy, with brimming eyes and wisps of hair curling about her face. Her wet scarf swung from her hand.
“You cannot come here, perfumed and lovely, singing over me. Nay, I will not abide it.” He paced away, running the dirty shirt over his hair. A hint of a fall chill wrapped around his torso.
“Then when can I call on you? Or should I wait for you to call on me? Need I remind you that I—”
“Love me?” He pointed to the house. “Whatever we said to one another while you lay fading on the settee is . . . is . . . folly. We are not meant to be, Esther. You deserve a much better man. One who dances with you in the grand salons of a British peer during the London seasons.”
“Grand salons? You know what I learned drinking tea with my British peers?”
He turned his back to her. He did not have to listen to her rebuke. But his feet remained planted in the damp dirt by the well.
“That there is no one who compares to you, Hamilton. Why do you think I returned home? And you cannot retract my words from that night. I won’t let you push me aside. I hold hope in my heart. Your rejection is just foolish talk created by the weariness of battle.” She jammed her finger to her breast. “I know you love me, and there is nothing you can say to dissuade me. So be angry, but not at me.”
“I almost killed a man, Esther! In cold blood.” He spread his arms and bent back, face toward heaven. “Shall I confess it? Do you hear me, Lord? I wanted revenge.” He seethed toward Esther. “The honor of the battlefield was long over when the men began killing the surrendering American Loyalists. I took up my dagger and knocked a man to his knees and so help me, I had every intention of—”
“Hamilton!” Eyes wide, she retreated a step, her fingers touching her li
ps.
“Do I shock you? Have you seen the darkness of my heart? Now you know we must not be together. To me, that soldier was the same ill form of human flesh that killed my pa. In cold blood in the town square. What was my father’s crime? Printing pamphlets without a stamp because he opposed the oppressive law.”
She lowered her hand. “You never said how he was killed.”
Hands on his waistband, he gazed toward the rolling hills, their serenity far, so very far away. “He was a printer. And when the king imposed the stamp tax, he printed without the stamp as a protest. A redcoat, a lieutenant not unlike Twimball, demanded to see his stamp. Pa refused, and right there, without judge and jury, the redcoat shot him.”
“And you witnessed it?”
“I was a boy of seven.” Blood ran down his arm where the wound had opened up. “I cried out and ran to him. The lieutenant kicked me in the ribs, then dragged me to the whipping post. Said if I was that man’s son, I must be an accomplice. I was to be made an example.”
“No . . .”
“My father’s partner intervened. Paid the soldier money to leave me be.” He peered at her, her blue eyes round with sadness. “The man killed my father for nothing. Money. The mayor tried to bring charges, but it only stirred up more dissension. Ma insisted the matter be put to rest with Pa.”
“I cannot imagine, Hamilton.” Esther set aside her scarf as she reached for his shirt and began washing it in the bucket.
“They killed my pa!” He gripped his hand into a fist. “Ma, Betsy, and I were left to fend for ourselves. My mother never recovered. I was nine when the house caught fire. She and Betsy died in the blaze.” He took the shirt from her, wrung out the water, and spread it over the small patch of grass surrounding the back steps. “I wonder if I shouldn’t have died as well.”
“You cannot mean it, Hamilton.”
“King’s Mountain revealed what I am capable of, and shame is my mantle.”
“But you didn’t use your dagger. You just said so.”
“Nor did I stop those who did. I’m just as guilty.”
“Then change. Repent as your uncle taught. You were born for a purpose, to do good. God has surely—”
“Become tired of me,” he said. “Of my ways, my doubts, my pride and wickedness.”
“He is also kind and benevolent, slow to anger, quick to forgive. Surely you’ve learned these truths from your uncle’s sermons.”
“Esther, cease with your pithy replies of kindness and forgiveness.” He retrieved the dagger from his boot. He would make her understand. Drive her away. “I stood over a man with this, his arms raised in surrender.” He wagged the weapon before her eyes. “I nearly drove this into his heart. How can you love such a man? Well, you must not.” He hurled the dagger into the ground. “I am precisely like the redcoat who shot my pa.”
“But you did not stab him. You let him go. That’s the man I love. One of reason and compassion.”
Adrenaline flowing, his heart pulsing, he crossed the barnyard toward the trees. “Go home, Esther. Go home.”
“Hamilton, wait—”
But he escaped into the woods where he could no longer hear her voice. When he emerged on the other side, he followed a cattle trail toward the stream.
He splashed into the current, sinking into the silt. How could he live with himself, knowing what he was capable of?
Murder. How he’d judged Twimball, when he was no better.
Meanwhile, his aggravated wound continued to fester. Hamilton splashed the cold water over his arm, washing the cut. He’d need a clean bandage.
When he glanced up, a man dressed in brown broadcloth stood on the pebbled bank. Hamilton took him for a beggar.
“Be on your way. I’ve nothing for you,” Hamilton called.
“I’ve come to see you.” The man raised his arm, beckoning Hamilton. “Come, follow me.”
“Follow you?” Hamilton scoffed, the creek water flowing over his boots as he sank deeper. “To where? Into town? Are you a patriot or Loyalist?”
“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.”
Kitch nodded, his gaze sweeping past Esther. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
“I’ll help,” Esther said, crossing the stone floor.
“Help? Leave the boy be, love. He doesn’t need you telling him how to do his job.”
“I-I don’t mind, sir. Mis
s Esther knows a goodly bit about horses.”
“Well, fine.” Father retrieved a cigar from his inside coat pocket. “I’m off for a light. Don’t leave without me, Esther.”
When he’d gone, Kitch passed Esther a small, tightly folded note.
“What took you so long?”
“He weren’t home. I had to wait under the maple.” Kitch replaced Gulliver’s saddle, then treated him with a slice of dried apple.
Hands trembling, Esther unfolded the letter, turning away as Kitch saddled the horses.
Esther, as I said, I cannot meet you. The harvest consumes my time. Yours, Hamilton
She crumpled the note, whirling about, her palm pressed to her forehead. “‘Yours, Hamilton’ . . . as if I’m a pesky school girl with a frivolous crush. Did he say anything to you?”
“Me?” Kitch made a face. “About what?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . that he’s passionately in love with me and merely frightened of his own powerful affections.”
Kitch buried his face in the horse’s side but could not mute his laugh well enough.
“What’s so funny?”
“I ain’t all that experienced with women—”
Esther sighed. “Do tell.”
“But if’n a man wants a woman, ain’t no fear that can hold him back, Miss Esther.”
“Oh really?” She set her hands about her waist and leaned toward him. “How do you know such things?”
Kitch grimaced, leading Barnabas from his stall. “Like I said, I don’t have much experience but—”
“When a man loves a woman, nothing can hold him back?”
“From what I’d seed, pretty much.”
Esther alighted on Gulliver’s back. “The same is true of women. When she is in love, there is no force more powerful.” She spurred the gelding out of the stable. Father would simply have to understand.
15
JESSE
Smitty,” Jesse called over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on Chloe. “You did not tell me the guesthouse was on Daschle property.”
