by Rachel Hauck
As he cleared the muddy maple swamp, a blinding, searing pain sliced through his leg, steel severing muscle from muscle, bone from bone. He plunged forward, falling face-first into the frozen mud. He tried to shove up, but a boot slammed down on his leg and he wailed in agony.
“If you’re going to kill me, do so.” Twimball’s hot breath slithered into Hamilton’s ear. He shoved Hamilton’s face into the mud, pressing harder, deeper.
Hamilton struggled, pushing up, aching for a breath.
In the distance, the click-slap of musket fire and shouts reverberated in the air. He couldn’t breathe . . . he couldn’t . . .
Then suddenly he was free.
Someone had his hands, dragging him away from the mud and conflict. Voices bandied above his hearing. His leg . . . he could not feel his leg.
A blanket floated above him, covering him. Esther bent over him, crying. The shouting stopped. The gunfire ceased. The perfume of gunpowder faded to the scent of a peaceful snow. Then a brilliant light burst through the trees. Someone called to him, “Hamilton . . . Hamilton . . .”
Pa? Hamilton sat up, squinting. There, running toward him. Pa! With Ma at his side, her arms outstretched, her face beautiful and radiant. “Hamilton . . . Hamilton.”
He was on his feet. “Pa! Ma!” Tears slipped freely on his muddy cheeks. But when his parents reached him, their arms were vapor, their embrace a wisp of wind.
“Pa! Ma! Wait! Wait!”
Hamilton twisted about, searching, desperate. But all anxiety died when his attention landed on a greater, exceedingly bolder light, one the sun’s brilliance could not rival. He vibrated with a sensation he could not control or describe.
A form emerged from the rays, moving as a man, yet one who had no beginning and no end. He bent near to Hamilton and pressed a hand over his heart, bowing his head as if in prayer.
“Come, follow me.”
Then Hamilton drifted away.
ESTHER
Two weeks had passed since the news of General Morgan and the patriots’ victory at Hannah’s Cowpens reached Slathersby Hill.
While her relationship with Hamilton seemed rather unsteady, she could not forget the feel of his soapy hair under her hands or the strength of his chest as she pressed her head against him. Nor the force of his kiss.
Say what he will, but he loved her. He could not convince her otherwise.
Esther paced before the library windows, watching the road, hoping, praying, wondering if today she’d hear of Hamilton’s wellbeing. Was he even alive?
Kitch ran across the yard toward the veranda and she steeled herself, calmly leaving the library just as Father entered, drawn and tense. The ease and cheer of Christmas had well passed.
“What is it?” Esther said to Father while nodding to Kitch when he appeared in the doorway. He flashed a short note and slipped it under the vase by the door.
“Lord Whatham fears defeat.” Father dropped down at his desk. “He is frantic over his accounts.”
“Then you must reassure him. You are his trusted agent.” Esther kissed his cheek. “You must take care of yourself. Remember Dr. Rocourt’s warning against stress. You do not want another incident.”
“I am healthy as a horse. Now leave me be.” Father hovered over his stack of letters.
He was not healthy as a horse. He was pale and weak, coughing at all hours. He went to bed late only to rise early.
During New Year’s festivities, when Father was merry with wine, Esther inquired about the Christmas Day exchange with Hamilton, but he laughed, putting her off.
“Do not worry yourself, Esther.”
She’d sided with her father that day, and as the weeks passed, she began to fear she’d alienated Hamilton beyond reconciliation.
“If you don’t slow down I’m going to call for Dr. Rocourt.” Esther made her way toward the vase, eyeing the edge of the note. “What are Lord Whatham’s fears about the war? Surely once peace is reached, we can resume normal living. Wouldn’t that be a delight? We should throw a ball, Father. Like the ones we attended in Charles Town.”
“A ball?” Father glanced up from his correspondence. “What’s this about a ball? As for Lord Whatham, he fears the new American government will confiscate his land. Take his holdings.” He held up the letter he’d just read. “Your mother writes—”
“Another love letter to you?” Esther coyly slipped the note into her pocket.
Father frowned. “She begs me to send you home to Grosvenor Square. She misses you. Above all, she fears for your safety. She reads too much about the war.”
“Does she not worry for your safety as well?”
Father turned back to his desk, his shoulders rounded with the weight of care. “She understands my duty is here, seeing to Lord Whatham’s interests. Blasted rebels. And that Lightfoot. I can only hope he has met his doom.”
“Father! You cannot mean it.”
“Indeed, I do.” He muttered, speaking to the dark wood of his desk. “. . . needed that land . . . did what I had to do . . .” His back and, at least for the moment, his heart were against Esther.
“I’ll pray you find your Christian charity toward the Lightfoots. And forgive any dispute over Quill Farm. If indeed there is any at all.”
Sassy entered with a tray, casting a slight glance toward Esther. “Your tea, Sir Michael.”
“Thank you, Sassy.” Father opened another letter. “Did you bake your fine cakes?”
“Just the way you like them.”
“Esther, will you pour? Let’s forget about wars and land disputes for now.”
“Of course.” Esther moved to the sideboard with a glance at the departing Sassy. What was in the note Kitch left? By his stealthy actions, it had to be from or about Hamilton. Sassy’s expression warned her the news may not be good.
“Oh, my buckle has come undone.” Esther bent down to her shoes, taking the note from her pocket. Her back to Father, she unfolded the thick paper, hands trembling.
Wounded. Billeted at the surgeon’s. Dr. Nelson. Green River Road.
She exhaled, closing her eyes. He was alive. Wounded, but alive. Smiling, she tucked the note back into her pocket.
She poured Father’s tea and joined him on the divan, nodding as he talked of spring planting, his mood a bit more lively than moments ago. She masked her emotions with an adoring smile. The man she loved lay wounded in a surgeon’s home nearly a hundred miles away.
While Father talked, she devised a plan. One she would execute without delay.
20
JESSE
A slick, winter mist watered the early morning. After only three weeks on set, unseasonable rains had slowed production.
But Jeremiah was a clever and experienced director who knew how to utilize his time well, rearranging the schedule to shoot the indoor scenes.
On his laptop, Jesse scrolled through the daily footage Jeremiah uploaded each night, awed and amazed to see his baby come to life.
On screen, Chloe and Chris leaned in for an Esther and Hamilton kiss, and jealousy nipped at him. Her lips were touching another’s. Not his.
He fast-forwarded as Chris-slash-Hamilton embraced Chloe-slash-Esther, intensifying their intimacy. He’d watched it live a few days ago and knew they were acting, playing the part. But in this moment the kiss seemed, felt, real.
Jesse advanced to the end. Why was he jealous? He knew acting. Understood actors. But he’d witnessed his share of on-set romances. Indulged in one or two himself. Two people who had absolutely no intention of developing a meaningful relationship would go hot and heavy while filming, while living in an alternate reality.
He wanted Chloe to himself. During filming and after. The real Chloe. The one who bought him a gift for no reason. Who inspired him to be a better man. Who spoke of faith as if it were real and dependable. Who was just as beautiful in a pair of jeans while eating chicken and rice on the lanai as she was gliding down the red carpet for a movie premier.
Ah, wh
at was he thinking? They were friends. Just friends. Jesse paused the daily and slapped his laptop closed. Friends who kissed, sure, but those were . . . moments. Yeah. Moments.
He didn’t believe his own argument. Deny it all he wanted, but Chloe was special. Maybe the kind of girl he’d waited for, the imaginary one that he spoke of that fatal night with Loxley.
How did he have any right to happiness and love? To success?
A knock on his hotel-room door took him from his mental path. “Yeah, coming.”
Chloe stood in the hall, leaning against the wall, cute and casual in jeans, boots, and a blue coat with a matching scarf. Her reddish-gold hair fell in large waves over her shoulders.
“H-hey.” Jesse tried to act casual, as if he was not just thinking of her, as if she did not stir conflicting desires. As if not reminding himself he did not deserve her. “What’s up?” He retreated into his room, leaving the door ajar for her to follow.
“Let’s go to the battlefield. Walk it without the cameras and crew. What do you say? Looks like there’s a break in the rain.” She did a jig with jazz hands, her mouth open, her expression wide. “Then maybe we could grab some breakfast at that place on Highway 11, the old vegetable stand turned restaurant. Remember the crew talking about it? Said they served a mean breakfast on Styrofoam plates . . .”
“The five hot dogs for five dollars place?”
“That’s the one. You game?” Her smile made him relax, settle his pulse, and forget his internal battle. “I like to absorb the local flavor when I’m on set.” She squinted at Jesse’s computer, wincing. “Were you watching dailies? I hate to see myself on screen.” Nevertheless, she dropped down on the two-seater sofa and raised the screen, clicking play.
Jesse joined her, watching the end of the kiss.
“W-what were you thinking and feeling here?” Stupid, really. But he had to say something. Otherwise she’d note his nervousness, the flash of heat on his face.
“I don’t know . . . vulnerable, I guess. Hamilton had just told Esther he was going to war, and she feared he’d never return. Then I thought how familiar Chris was to me, and then a flash of a tabloid headline: ‘Chloe Daschle dashed after Chris Painter declared he hadn’t met his soul mate.’ Then Haden popped into my head. For a split second I wanted to pull back, close down, but then . . .” She ran her fingers through the fringe of her scarf. “I thought of you.”
“Me?” Her confession powered his curiosity, powered his pulse. “Your little brain-people sure were busy during that scene.”
She sat back and patted his thigh, resting her hand there for a second. But just a second. “If you only knew . . . So, yeah, I thought of you, how much this meant to you, how your screenplay was giving me a chance to be the lead in a film where the girl doesn’t die. So I gave the kiss all the life I had.” Her gaze lingered on his face. “How’d I do?”
He nodded, thumbs up. “As if that kiss might have been with the man you love.” It made me jealous. It made me want you. It made me realize I don’t deserve you.
“Thank you.” She smiled. “Not only for the compliment but for your words, your characters, the story you’re telling. It fills me with hope. That love truly never fails.”
“But love did fail. Failed Hamilton and Esther. Failed . . . me, you, hundreds of thousands of others. And that was just yesterday. Forget this week, this month, last year, the decades and centuries past.”
“Whoa, slow down, mister. I can’t be responsible for human history, but I can be responsible for me. Hopeful for me.” She fiddled with her scarf again. “Us.”
“Us? Friends us or—”
“I don’t know . . .” She wrinkled her nose. “Us, us.”
“Chloe.” Jesse moved toward the closet for his coat, forming his truth. “In my heart I know I did not kill Loxley, even if my behavior was inexcusable. Yet my head tells me I have no right to love, to happiness, to even this”—he motioned to his laptop—“success. To my dreams and goals coming to fruition.”
“But maybe if you tried? With me.” Her face, her voice, everything about her said sweet, vulnerable, timid. And that she put herself out there on purpose.
“What happened to our pledge? No on-set romance.” Jesse pulled on his coat. “Haven’t you had your heart broken enough? I’d rather be your friend than the guy who tried to love you and failed. Another one who broke your heart.”
“But what if you’re the guy who tries and succeeds? What if you realize Loxley would want you happy?”
“I’m not sure I know how to be that guy, Chloe.” He took his scarf from the coat’s pocket. What was she saying? She loved him? She was shorting his circuits with this conversation. He needed a moment to process. “How are we going on this adventure today?”
She held up a set of keys. “I begged a car from the crew.”
He touched her arm as she passed. “If I were going to try, it would be with someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” Her eyes searched his.
“You. It would be you.”
“Then where does that leave us? Are you never going to try? Lacking the courage to tell a girl she may be the love of your life is the same as lacking the courage to tell her she isn’t.”
“Love of my life? See, we’re already in hyperbole while still talking in hypotheticals.” He started down the hotel hallway, then whirled to her. “By the way, are you saying you want to start something with me? Are you willing to put your heart on the line again? With an actor? And knowing my story?”
“Forget it, Jesse. Forget what I said. Let’s just pretend there’s no attraction between us.” She pushed past him, bumping him against the wall. “Do you still want to go to the battlefield and breakfast?”
“Sure, why not?”
In some sort of steamy silence, they walked across the parking lot to the car. What just happened? Jesse side-checked Chloe as she backed out of the hotel parking lot.
But if she was falling in love with him, then color him helpless. He’d not be able to resist her. Past or no past. In fact, he might be conquered by the end of breakfast.
CHLOE
The sun broke through the clouds as they drove north toward the historic battlefield. Chloe parked at the opening of Green River Road.
Their doors clapped shut in the cold morning air. She’d been quiet during the drive over trying to figure out what happened at the hotel. Fear overwhelming the idea of love?
But sooner or later she wanted to try again. Unlike before, she had God to seek, to give her wisdom this time.
Since their wedding escapade, Jesse had become a part of her daily thoughts—a favorite memory, a yearning, his kiss the kind that made her glad she was a woman.
Her feelings for him were growing stronger, and she’d not deny it. Yet, putting herself out there, exposing her heart, had been risky.
The idea of being in love suddenly trumped her rules about on-set romance and the idea that she just picked bad, bad men to love.
But Jesse . . . oh, he was . . .
She glanced over as he joined her on the road, zipping up his coat.
Special. There was something about him . . .
“Where do you think Hamilton was on this field?” she said.
“He was one of the skirmishers, so over there, in the trees.” Jesse pointed left, tugging on his gloves.
The wind nipping between the trees was edged with ice. Chloe walked on one side of the dirt road, Jesse on the other.
“I’m trying to picture a thousand or so militia and regular army, and it seems so foreign, another life,” she said.
“It was another life. Thus, the magic of movies.” Jesse slowed, taking in the ancient field. “It’s nice to be here without the cameras and crew.” He tipped his face toward the sun.
“History was made here, Jess. Your ancestor fought for independence. On this very ground. Do you think he realized what he was doing, what kind of nation we would become?”
She stopped among the trees wh
ere the skirmishers hid. Typically, the park stationed silhouetted cutouts of militiamen down on one knee, rifles raised. But they’d been stored for the movie.
“Can you imagine what kind of nation we’ll be in two hundred years? I doubt Hamilton realized the magnitude. He was a backwoods man from the South Carolina colony. Probably wanted nothing more than a successful farm, the chance to feed and clothe his wife and children.” Jesse dropped to one knee, raised an imaginary rifle, and fired.
Chloe knelt beside him. “And where would Esther be?”
“Now, that I do not know.” Jesse sat on the dewy grass and rested his arms on his raised knees. “Some wives followed their husbands to the battleground, but I doubt Esther would’ve. A single woman traveling with a single man would have been scandalous.”
“Maybe she was here?” Chloe reached through his arms to tap his heart.
“Maybe.” He fumbled with his words as he stood. “I’m not sure he even knew her when he fought here.”
Hands in her coat pockets, Chloe walked toward the original Battle of Cowpens monument. “Do you think you’ll ever know the whole story?”
“Unless Aunt Pat uncovers it, probably not.”
“Yet through the power of movie magic, two people are getting the love story they never had.”
“Yep. Esther and Hamilton.”
“Or Jesse and Loxley.” Chloe leaned to see his face.
“What is it you want me to say, Chloe? That I exercised my guilt while writing this screenplay?”
“Did you?”
“No, I wrote a story. About something that interested me.”
“You never once thought of Loxley?”
He jumped up. “Yes, I thought of her. Are you happy?”
“Are you?”
Jesse peered down at her. “Did you minor in psychology at UCLA?” He sat next to her again. “There were moments while writing I stopped to cry, to tell her I was sorry. My stupidity stole any chance she had at happiness. I partnered with that riptide to end her life.” His voice rose and fell with each rush of the wind.