by Rachel Hauck
After telling him her story about Haden, she still didn’t blame him. They both sat on the edge of caution.
“Wow,” he said. “You look like Esther. At least how I pictured her.” He touched the edge of her curls. “Is that your hair?”
“Yeah. Michele said she’d rather style my hair than a wig.”
Jesse drew her into a hug, setting his cheek against her hair-sprayed head. “I feel like I’ve known you forever.”
She inhaled the scent of his buckskin and the fragrance of the man beneath. “Me too.”
Oh, this was not good. She was falling . . . in love. Once again, her girlish romantic notions steered her toward trouble. Leaping. Sinking at the mere sight of him. Captured by a mere smile.
With a deep breath, Chloe pushed out of his arms.
“H-how was Boston?” Why did he have to look so . . . so good? Manly. He’d grown out his hair for the part and wore it loose about his neck, looking very much like an eighteenth-century backwoods man.
“Boston was good. Cold. Snowy.” His posture of leaning against the doorjamb with folded arms and squared shoulders brought to mind every hero she’d imagined as a girl.
“Did you see Loxley’s parents?”
“I tried. Wanted to take the scholarship money over, but they were out of town. Maybe it’s for the best.”
“Give them time.”
“It’s been eight years. I don’t think they’ll ever forgive me, and I don’t blame them.”
Since their lanai confessions, he had brought up the incident at least two more times, revealing a part of himself she’d not seen before. Chloe’s friendly affection for him grew with her admiration.
“All you can do is ask.” She squeezed his arm. “I’m working on forgiving myself. Letting go. You do the same. Come on, Jesse, we’re on the set of your movie.” She threw her hands in the air. “Woo-hoo!”
“Right, right. Sorry to bring up . . .” He clapped his hands together and motioned toward the window where the crew was setting up for Hamilton to rescue Esther from a runaway horse. “Big first scene. You ready? I was so excited I couldn’t sleep last night.”
“Me either.”
“I bet. You’re being saddled to a runaway horse on opening day.”
“I just have to hang on for fifteen seconds, look terrified, and the stunt double will do the rest.”
“Stunt double?” He made a face. “Coward.”
Chloe popped him on the arm. “I’d like to live to see this film in theaters.”
“Jesse? You coming?” Jeremiah walked through the house with determined purpose. “We’re setting up.”
“Yes, sir.” Jesse started after him with a passing comment to Chloe. “Off to learn from the master.”
“Jesse?” she called.
He paused at the door. “Yeah?”
“This scene, with Esther on the horse—it’s about Loxley and the riptide, right? You’d have saved her if you’d known.”
He regarded her, then shifted his gaze away and scanned the grounds. “Don’t read too much into everything, Chloe.”
“But it’s the riptide, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s the riptide.”
He walked away with his back straight and proud, and she tipped just a little over the edge of love.
Lori Twichell, the unit manager, came into the room. “You ready?” She smiled. “The trainer and horse are here. We want a quick run-through.”
“Fine, but is my hero here?” Chloe had been in South Carolina for a week and had yet to see Chris Painter, her esteemed costar.
“We think he’s here. Not sure, but we’re setting up anyway. Especially since the trainer is here . . . You might as well rehearse. Jer can get shots of you looking terrified.”
“Which won’t require much acting, if any.” She loved horses. From afar. Her one and only childhood foray into horseback riding ended with her face-first in a pile of . . . Well, you know. Fill in the blank.
Chloe headed out with Lori just as Jeremiah charged up the sloping lawn toward the house, phone to his ear, arms waving. The director of photography, Sandy Logan, charged up the slope next to him, along with Jer’s militant assistant, Becky.
“He’s not here!” Jeremiah tucked his phone into his pocket, steaming, pacing, hands on his belt, his blondish hair on end.
“Painter’s not here?” Lori said.
“If he is, we can’t find him,” Beck said. “I’ve called and called. He doesn’t answer.” She clutched her iPad, her lifeline, to her chest.
“That arrogant son of a . . . I knew it.” Jer walked to the end of the porch and back. “I told Laura over Christmas that Painter was going to be a pain in my—”
Jesse joined the huddle, standing back, arms crossed, listening.
“Jer, I have his agent on the line,” Becky said.
Jeremiah exploded into the phone, his face red, his free arm waving all about. But it was a short call and he tossed the phone back to Becky, then peered at Jesse and Chloe.
“He did this to me on Someone to Love. If the studio didn’t want him for this film, I’d fire him and cast Jesse as Hamilton. We’ve already lost the first shoot. Lori, reschedule the horse and trainer. On to the next scene.”
“Now, wait a minute, Jeremiah.” Sandy, the director of photography, followed him off the porch toward his office trailer. Lori and Becky dispersed in different directions, phones to their ears.
Jesse leaned against the porch post. “You think he’ll show?”
“He’ll show. He cares too much about his reputation.”
“Then why is he not here?”
“Chris is spontaneous. He probably went on some New Year’s adventure and got stuck. When we were doing High School Follies, he got this wild idea to fly to Australia for the weekend. Did he calculate the time change? Jet lag? Nope. Then he got food poisoning. Had to spend a week in a medical unit in Tahiti. We missed two weeks of filming.”
Buckskin cap in his hand, Jesse sat on the steps. “When I was home at Christmas, my brother offered me a job at his company.” He looked up at Chloe. “Can you believe it? On the eve of my first script being made into a movie, he begs me to return to DiamondBros. Guess it’s a good backup plan in case this flops.”
She joined him on the stoop and tapped her arm against his. “First of all, this film isn’t going to flop.”
“We’re not off to a good start.”
“Second, you’re a screenwriter and an actor. You’ll write another screenplay. Act in another movie. You may think your career is doomed on this auspicious start, but what about me? I need this film to succeed or I’ll forever be the queen of dying.”
“Things are going to change for you, Chloe. I can feel it. You’re too good to stay under that moniker.”
“Hey, at least you have a fallback plan. If I’m not acting, I’ve got nothing. Your brother must think you’d be an asset if he’s asking you back. Isn’t it good he values your ability?”
“I suppose.” Sunlight moved over the window, spilling a golden light at their feet. “Man, I wanted today to start with a bang.”
“Better to finish with one. Don’t worry, Chris will show up. You’ll be a success, win awards, and your brother will realize you’re doing what you’re called to do.”
He looked at her. “Can you just move into my head, be my constant cheerleader?”
Yes. “Ha, you don’t need me in your head.”
“I don’t know, maybe I do.” He raised his hand to her cheek. “Chloe, maybe we are—”
She gently lowered his hand. “Jesse, you are making it really hard to just be friends.”
But oh, how she wanted his touch this morning. His kiss.
“You are making it hard . . . to be just a friend.” Slowly he drifted toward her, his eyes searching hers.
The front door opened and closed with a bang. Jesse jerked away, scrambling to his feet.
“Painter is on his way,” Jeremiah said, nearly catching them in a kis
s.
“Good news,” Jesse said.
“But we’re still rearranging today’s shoot.” Jeremiah motioned for the two of them to follow. “The light is perfect for the barnyard scene. The child actors are here, so we might as well shoot their scene. Jess, this is a long shot, so we’re dressing you up as Hamilton.”
“Me? You can’t. People will be able to tell.”
“Not when I’m done. Teach Painter to miss the first day of a shoot. You’re his size and build. It’ll be fine, just fine.”
Chloe exchanged a glance with Jesse. Well, here we go. The barnyard scene was the last scene. The final shot. The summation of the story. But scenes were never shot in sequence. So today the end would be the beginning.
Jeremiah stopped walking and turned to Chloe and Jesse. “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I? Back there on the porch?”
“No.” Jesse cleared his throat. Too loud. Too deep.
Chloe shook her head.
“Good. I don’t need any more drama. Let’s go. Chloe, remember, your on-set romances end in disaster.”
And . . . thank you for that, Jeremiah.
“That’s what I get for working with a family friend,” she muttered to Jesse.
“He’s in go-mode, Chloe. Don’t take it to heart,” Jesse said, walking off after their boss and director.
But Chloe hesitated, slow to join the procession, needing time to collect herself. Jeremiah did interrupt something. A moment she wanted and ached to retrieve. Just one more kiss. That’s all she wanted. Because something about his lips on hers made her feel . . . loved. Wanted. Valued.
Jesse waved for her to come along. Chloe started for the barnyard, heeding Jeremiah’s warning.
This was no time to fall in love.
19
HAMILTON
He woke while the stars lingered on the sleepy horizon and rolled up his bed, the cold morning dew seeping into his bones. He’d barely slept, but when he did, he dreamed of the battle, wrestling with men, grappling with demons.
Captain Irwin roused the men. Hamilton reached for his rifle, tucked his pistol in his belt, and faced his dawn. Today he’d cause the death of another man. Or take a bullet himself.
Pray God he’d execute his duty with honor. Pray God his final sins were forgiven.
The scent of winter hung over him. Crisp, cold, damp. Tossing his bed beyond the trees, he picked his station and settled his rifle against the tree. Then he found Ralphie. “Do away with your bedroll, then check your weapon and choose your position.”
The boy moved with quickness. Hamilton determined not to send him home for a burial but for reward.
“When can we eat?” Ralphie said.
“I’ve hardtack in my haversack. It’s yours.” Hamilton dare not eat. His belly was too full of anxiety. “But remain at the ready.” He snagged the boy by the arm. “Look for the epaulets. Fire your shots. Then retreat.”
“Three shots. When I see the whites of their eyes.”
“Good man. And have a care, Ralphie. I do not want to carry your lifeless body home to your mama.”
Hamilton crouched, leaned against the tree trunk, and scanned the horizon. He’d been steadier at King’s Mountain. But then he saw what seemingly good men could do to each other, and it rattled him. His own darkness disturbed him.
If the redcoats surrendered, he’d demand Loyalist and regular troops alike be given quarter. Even that louse Twimball. He’d buck General Morgan himself if need be.
He patted his side pocket. His letter. Where was his letter? Crawling to his haversack, he searched the bag, exhaling when he pulled the tightly folded note free. He’d tied it with a string and addressed it to Miss Esther Longfellow, Slathersby Hill.
“Ralphie,” he said in a rough whisper, tucking the letter into his pocket. “I’ve a letter.” He tapped his side. “Should anything happen—”
“Pardon me, Hamilton, but I’ll not carry your lifeless body home to your aunt Mary.”
“Well, then . . .” Hamilton gave the courageous boy a nod.
A dark presence emerged on the horizon. Hamilton tensed, taking aim. The patriots had surprised the British at King’s Mountain. The strategy was the same for Cowpens. This was no time to flirt with fear.
The sound of drumming broke through the trees, imploring Hamilton’s pulse to pound in rhythm. A dew of anticipation broke across his forehead as they advanced one uniform step at a time, and he realized the power of their might.
Man upon man marched toward them. The British regulars flanked by Light Dragoons and light infantry.
Captain Irwin crouched along the skirmishers. “First line at the ready.”
The British line spread along the horizon, haloed by the rising sun.
Steady . . . Let them draw within fifty yards. Hamilton slid up against the grain of the tree, sighting down the long rifle barrel. Fifty yards. Find an epaulet. His breath collected against his hand and flowed back to him.
“Now,” came the command from behind him.
Hamilton stepped around the tree, aiming and firing, the release of his rifle resounding in the crisp air. His bullet hit an officer in the shoulder. Crying out, the man toppled backward from his horse.
Hamilton retreated, then ducked behind his tree and tore at his ammunition box. He reloaded, ramming the ball and powder down the barrel, feeling as if eternity, not seconds, had passed. His hands shook. His vision blurred. Ready for his next volley, Hamilton watched as Ralphie ran past, took his shot, and returned to his station.
“I hit a captain.” His voice was rushed and high-pitched.
“No time for glory. Reload.”
Dragging in a steadying breath, Hamilton waited for the next group of men to fire. Upon their retreat, he’d take his second shot.
As the third line fired and turned, Lieutenant Twimball rode into the trees, his saber raised, riding toward Ralphie.
With a shout, Hamilton leaped to his feet, exposing his position. He fired as Twimball turned his mount and rode toward him.
The bullet clipped the lieutenant’s shoulder, and he fell back with a cry. Hamilton retreated, his senses on fire, every bone blazing.
Back to the tree, he reloaded his gun. Then a shadow crested over his body, and he looked up to see Twimball lowering his sword, slashing through Hamilton’s left arm.
With a cry, he lurched backward, his rifle soaring through the air. “Twimball!”
“Come from your hiding, Lightfoot. If you’re soldier enough.” The lieutenant bolted away in retreat, riding along the right side of the field, finding cover among the trees as the next round of skirmishers took aim.
Shaking, Hamilton gripped his arm, blood oozing through his fingers, and tried to assess the magnitude of his wound. And where had his gun landed?
“He got you good.” Ralphie knelt next to him, tearing the edge of his blouse and making a tourniquet for Hamilton’s arm.
“Leave me be. Go to your duty. Fire your final round.”
“I can’t leave you—”
“To your duty, Ralphie.”
The boy scrambled away. When the last volley ended, the skirmishers were done.
“Retreat!”
“Hamilton, make haste.” Ralphie urged him to his feet. “They are upon us.”
“My rifle.” Hamilton pointed to the open spot among the trees. “Where’s my rifle?”
“You’ve no time. Come! We’ve lured them in.”
So he ran with the skirmishers, leaning against Ralphie, drawing the charging redcoats toward General Morgan and the waiting Continentals.
The air popped with musket fire, scenting it with gunpowder.
In the race toward the waiting troops, Hamilton swerved around a stand of trees toward the maple swamp. Once again he was confronted by Twimball on his steed, rising up and pawing the air.
With a roar, Hamilton leaped toward him, yanking him from his horse.
The lieutenant kicked and struggled, and he landed headfirst on the ground.
When he hopped to his feet, Hamilton jerked his pistol from his belt and aimed. His left sleeve was soaked with blood and his right hand unsteady.
Twimball retrieved the pistol lodged in his own waistband.
“Shall you kill me as you killed my uncle?” Hamilton said, taking one slow step forward. “As you tried to kill Esther?”
The men circled one another, the sounds of clashing sabers and musket fire the music for their dance.
“Shall I listen to you? A traitor, a man of no honor? You think I didn’t learn of your actions at King’s Mountain?”
“My actions?” But Hamilton knew he was just as guilty of wanting to kill the surrendered as those who actually did.
Hate, the Good Book said, was the same as murder.
“Yes, yours, your kind, your militia.”
“’Tis nothing compared to the blood on your hands.” Hamilton inched closer. Could he fire upon this man? Or lower his weapon and lay down his life?
“Fire if you have the courage,” Twimball said, a strange light in his eyes, his words slurred and slow. The left shoulder of his red coat was deepening to a dark crimson. “Go on. End it.”
Hamilton took aim, his finger pressing on the trigger, the blood in his veins roaring. Should he finish what he had started? Finish Twimball?
The light filtering through the trees shifted. And in an instant, Hamilton saw the man in a new light. Scared. Weak. Seeking honor on the battlefield that he did not have at home. The strange glint in his eyes was one of a man longing for love.
Hamilton stepped back, lowering his pistol.
“What, my man? Are you changing your tune now? On the battlefield, no less?” Twimball stumbled forward, closing in, swinging his pistol from side to side.
“I cannot fire.”
Twimball seethed, raising his weapon. “Then the honor will be mine.”
Hamilton raised his arms out to his side, waiting. “I’m sorry, Esther.”
A gunshot rang out, and Hamilton jerked at the blast. But it was Twimball who buckled with a moan and collapsed to the ground.
Ralphie jumped from around a tree. “Run!”
He did not hesitate, chasing Ralphie toward the Continentals, his pulse pounding, his left arm limp by his side. He’d not fired upon Twimball. He’d fought with honor . . .