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Philo struggled against the urge to smile as wide as the cold winter sky. “I would like that very much. Very much indeed.”
* * *
As they approached the yard after their journey to Duxbury, Hannah felt lighter and more joy filled than she had since her youth. She glanced up to heaven, pouring out her unspoken prayers to the One who knew her better than she knew herself. He’d known she needed that levity, that laughter and freedom from woe, however short it might be. She might not have been able to bear the return if she hadn’t. All because of God—and Joseph.
She glanced up at him, the grin on her lips stretching over her face and deep through her heart. Looking down again at her hands as Joseph directed the horses and wagon to the barn at the side of the foundry, she flicked away the prick of disappointment, as one might a crawling pest in summer. Here they must shed what familiarity they’d enjoyed on the brief ride. They must don again the heavy cloak of secrecy. They were cousins. Nothing more. ’Twas the way she wanted it, of course. With a swallow and a cough, she labored to ingest that belief, but the jagged edges of truth scraped on their way down.
Once stopped, she secured that ponderous cloak around her shoulders with strings of reality. She was here for the cause, for Ensign—as was Joseph. He had made his choice ten years ago, and if she thought their nearness would change that—that a mere playful fight in the snow would unravel the mass of tangled emotions, she was as daft as she’d been before.
Joseph hopped down and came around to assist her.
Hands at her waist, hers at his shoulders, he lowered her to the ground, his grip and gaze lingering. The small, unopened grin that warmed his face mirrored hers, no longer as light or as wide as it had been, yet just as real. And the depth of it held her like an embrace.
For a moment they stayed motionless, neither of them speaking, fearing, it seemed, that words might dim the brightness of what they’d shared and snip away what had been mended.
Slowly his hands fell away, and she wrapped her arms around her waist, reluctant to let the warmth of his touch fade. Glancing to the house, she focused her eyes on the unfamiliar horse that waited out front.
Another soldier perhaps?
Sighing, she started for the yard, when a firm grip on her arm stopped her.
“Hannah.”
Her whispered name, deep and filled with an emotion she couldn’t name, tugged at her heart as real as his hand at her elbow.
Like a stern mother, she scolded the sudden yearning and hid it behind a questioning look. “Aye?”
“Would you…” He swallowed and licked his lips, looking briefly away.
In that moment she saw the same nervous expression in his eyes—that same tentative want she’d seen the first night he’d asked to see her home. Dear heaven. If he were to ask her anything, she would be powerless to resist.
Releasing a quick breath, he tried again. “Would you sit with me by the fire this evening?”
Keeping her tone void of the exuberance that whirled within her took painful effort. “Of course.”
She hesitated just long enough to note the easing around his eyes and the drop of his chest, as if he’d been holding a heavy breath. With a nod she turned back to the house, letting out at last the smile that burst from her spirit. Even her steps were quicker, lighter, forgetting the admonition of minutes earlier.
Attempting to restrain the childish thrill was folly, but she tried nonetheless. He simply asked to spend time at the fire. They had done that before. ’Twas nothing remarkable. So why did her heart labor under the hope that it was something more?
Having crossed the yard, she glanced at the waiting horse before gripping and turning the cold handle of the door. Pushing it wide, she took a step in, and the two men standing at the fire twisted her direction.
Lord in heaven, give me strength.
Unable to move, she stared at the one man who stared back, her emotions fleeing every direction, leaving only fear in her center. Fear and its shadow, suspicion.
Philo’s smile was hesitant, his voice equally so. “Hannah, my dear.”
Her tongue welded to the roof of her mouth. Still within the doorframe, the cold nipped up Hannah’s skirt, but she welcomed the sensation, preferring it to the type of cold that waited within.
Stockton smiled, that familiar protectiveness deepening the lines around his eyes. Cup in hand, he left his spot beside the fire, placing the unfinished drink on the table between the chairs as he came toward her.
“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Young, I should like to speak with your cousin about your visit to Duxbury.” He stopped beside her, reaching
out as if he would touch her arm. His throat worked, and his eyes darted to Philo before returning to her. “If you should need anything…”
With a dip of his chin, he left. She wanted to call out, beg him to come back. Even his presence would be more welcome than solitude with this man.
“Come in, my child.” Philo motioned to the fire, his actions hesitant and strained as his eyes trailed her. He shook his head, looking as if he might speak something genuine, intimate, before he coughed it away. “You must warm yourself. You look chilled.”
