“Solomon’s alive.” She looked away, so she would not see the leap of hope in her mother’s face before she dashed it away again. “He turned on the Union. That’s why they never found him. He’s a traitor and he ran from the field of battle. Then he joined the Confederacy.”
“Child, I know you want to believe he’s alive, but—”
“I heard him,” Clara said brutally, looking back, and she saw her mother’s face go white. “In the cabin. He was telling Jasper—Mister Perry—that he regretted it, that he didn’t want to fight for the Confederacy any longer. He didn’t want to come home, because he thought it would be better if we believed he was dead. And it would have!” The words burst out of her. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to tell you—I wanted you to think he was gone. It was so much better when I thought he was gone.”
“He’s alive,” her mother said quietly, and Clara heard the hope in her voice. Tears were running down her cheeks. “Solomon is alive.”
“He betrayed all of us, don’t you see?” Clara whispered. “Mother.... Mother, please, why are you smiling?”
“He’s alive,” her mother whispered. Her shoulders were shaking with tears.
“How can you be pleased?”
“He’s my child,” Millicent said simply. “I could no more stop loving him than I could cut out my own heart, Clara—and neither could you. You’re blinded by what he did to you, but it’s different for a parent. I thought he had died on a battlefield and I wasn’t there to hold his hand and tell him it would be all right. I thought I had allowed him to march off to war and give his life, and I could never forgive myself. But he’s alive.”
“Yes,” Clara said after a moment. “He saw Jasper on the battlefield, wounded, and he saved his life. Then he went to fight for them.”
“But he came back.”
“He said it was all lies,” Clara said, hating that the words made her mother smile. She wanted to be angry, and now her anger felt very small. Her brother was alive—how could she not be as happy as her mother was? How had she never even considered forgiving him? “He wanted surety and they promised it, but it was lies.”
The sound of the door below startled her, made her draw herself up. She should be composed when Cecelia returned. It was not Cecelia coming back to the house. There was a buggy outside, and a figure in black galloping across the fields.
“Holy hell,” Clara whispered.
“Language,” her mother said absently.
“No. Mother... Cyrus.” Clara pointed, trembling. “Cyrus heard us. He knows about them. He’s going to the cabin.”
Chapter 17
“Someone’s coming,” Solomon observed. He was getting stronger each day and had taken to walking in slow circles around the camp.
Jasper looked up from his makeshift game traps. The sound of his friend’s voice was a surprise. They rarely spoke any longer. Solomon had hardly uttered a word since the night Clara ran from him, and as he walked, his face often twisted in misery. Jasper, for his part, could not find words to comfort the man. Honor, and the dregs of friendship, demanded that he remain until he was certain Solomon had recovered, but whenever he opened his mouth to assure Solomon that all would be well, resentment twisted in his gut.
If it were not for Solomon, his mind told him, Clara would not have run from him that night. If it were not for Solomon, he would never have met Clara at all, and he would not be tormented by the memory of her smile and the desire in her eyes. Reason told him that Clara could never have been his. Solomon had been right, and Millicent as well: such a match had never been possible. However if he had come here alone, Jasper wondered passionately, not bringing a man who had betrayed her, would they have had a chance?
It did not seem right that he could love her so much if they were not meant to spend their lives together. Every day, as Solomon grew stronger, Jasper reminded himself that he must leave, and he felt sick at the thought. He spent each day hoping that Clara would come to him, even as he tried to accept that she would not. Now, at Solomon’s words, Jasper’s heart leaped.
“Is it Clara?” He flailed his way through the brush and back toward the house.
“No, it’s a man. Get the musket.” Solomon leaned forward, squinting, then stumbled back from the door. “It’s Cyrus. Jasper...”
With a sinking dread, Jasper marked the brown hair, the stocky build. Solomon was correct, and there was no time to load the musket. Jasper pushed Solomon behind the house, hearing a muffled exclamation as the man toppled over a shrub.
“He has a very strong right hook,” came the voice, and Jasper nodded in the direction of the bush.
“Thank you.”
“Wait.” Solomon’s head emerged from the undergrowth, branches in his hair. “I should talk to him. He won’t care about you if he sees me here.”
“Then your family will know,” Jasper said. “You’re still weak. If he’s here for a fight...”
“You and I both know,” Solomon said quietly, “that I deserve more than a beating for what I did.” He pushed himself up and brushed the branches from his hair.
“I won’t argue with that, but let me see what he wants first.” Jasper did not like the look of this.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Solomon asked.