“That’s a lie.” She did not spit the words at him, only said it as if she were reciting her times tables. “I’ve seen you recently, you know, staring into the woods, always alone. You told me before that you would get home to Clara, but I don’t think you’re sure—I don’t think you even want to be sure. Sometimes, when they aren’t all glaring at you, you look at home with them. Well, I’ll tell. When I get home, I’ll tell her the truth about what you are.”
“You’ve never been away from your homestead!” At last, Jasper felt his temper beginning to slip. So what if she had seen? He would not apologize for missing his family. “If all you had left was ashes and memories, if you had not seen the orchard or the barn or your bedroom for years and you could never go back. Then, even if you had someone you loved, would you not grieve what you had lost?”
She did not speak. Her mouth was hanging open, and even at the sight of her shocked face, Jasper could not stop.
“I love Clara. I love her more than anyone in the world and I would never betray her. But you, everyone, even she, you all think I must be one or the other, southern or northern, Confederate or Union. You think that to miss my home is treason, just like they think helping a wounded man was treason! Well, I never asked for any of this.”
“I never thought—”
“You did. Ever since I lived with you, every one of you has wanted me to accept the Union as my home, and maybe it is now, but you expect loyalty down to my thoughts. You try to tell me what is right, and I... I cannot bear to keep being shoved into a box and told I can only be one thing, ever. That I can never miss what used to be. I never asked to love a woman far from my home. I never asked for my home to be destroyed. I have lost more than you could ever know, and I will forever regret that you got caught up in this, but do not dare tell me that I am not loyal to your sister because I miss my people.”
“Very interesting,” said Robert Knox’s voice.
Jasper froze, his veins turning to ice.
“So she’s not your wife, after all. Is it still your child she’s carrying then?”
She’s not even pregnant. Better that they thought him faithless, than he take what little protection Cecelia still had. Jasper hung his head, biting his tongue.
“Well, we’ll find out soon enough. Along with all the details of this Union soldier you saved.” His tone dripped with fury. “Back on the horse, Perry. I don’t think anything’s going to save you now.”
Chapter 8
“You sure this is going to work?” Solomon crawled low to the ground to Ambrose’s side.
“No.” Ambrose glanced over at him.
“What?”
“You’re asking me to help you rescue two people from the clutches of twenty well-armed militia. Our odds of success are slim at best. So, no. I am not, to quote you, ‘sure this is going to work.’”
Solomon paused, holding back a rejoinder. Over the past day, he had found himself becoming more and more comfortable in Ambrose’s company. The man’s tongue was sharp, but always with a hint humor that Solomon found refreshing. Had they been two men sitting in a tavern, he would have been quite pleased to spend an entire afternoon in conversation.
Except they were not two men in a tavern. They were a spy and a traitor, shortly to be a spy and a dead man, and Solomon just wished he could make himself understand that Ambrose was far, far from being an ally.
“So why’re you here with me?” Solomon asked him quietly.
Oddly, Ambrose looked away.
Solomon brought his eyebrows together. Had the man blushed?
“Because a man of honor is an unusual thing to find these days.” His voice was muffled against the leaves so that Solomon had to lean close to hear. When he turned back, Ambrose’s face was so close they both drew quickly away. “And a man of honor, who might also be a traitor, is a puzzle I wish to solve,” the spy finished softly.
“I’m just a puzzle to you?” For some reason this disappointed Solomon.
Ambrose opened his mouth, then shut it. “Every man is a puzzle,” he said finally. “Some are simply more interesting than others.”
“No less than I should have expected from a spy.” Anger beat in Solomon’s chest. Why, he could not say. Perhaps his mind had finally remembered that this man would shortly hand him over to be hanged.
That, his mind whispered, is not it.
He was tired and hungry. That was it, Solomon told himself, and shoved away any thoughts that might say otherwise. He shoved away too the way he wanted to take the words back when he saw the fleeting hurt pass over Ambrose’s features.
And yet, for all of Solomon’s anger, Ambrose had been fair to him. Solomon had sworn his intentions not to run, and he had no wish to, but he had never for a moment thought Ambrose would believe him. Still, the man had not bound his hands as they rode, or as they slept. He had not taken Solomon’s rifle or knife. However sure he was of Solomon’s guilt, as he might be, Solomon had to admit; the man was also sure of the promise.
Neither did he ask about Solomon’s guilt. Several times now, Solomon had seen the questions in his eyes and at the tip of his tongue, but the strange man always hid the words away, as if respecting a request for peace. It very nearly made Solomon feel guilty, given that he had only withheld the information, knowing the other wanted the truth. He was not quite foolish enough to spit out everything now, but seeing Ambrose quell his curiosity always prompted Solomon to speak.
So, speak they did. Not of the trial that was to come, or Solomon’s time in the war, but of inconsequential things: Beauty’s breeding, and the type of apple trees they had planted in the orchard. Ambrose did mention, but then did not speak of it again, his elder brother, carried away by treachery. He did talk about a younger sister, his voice so wistful that Solomon almost thought he might be the one speaking, around a campfire on the march to battle, and he felt a strange dislocation in time.