“There you are,” she said.
“Am I?” Jasper’s eyes were closed. He was tilted to the side, his hair and clothes disarranged, and frankly, she didn’t see why he hadn’t toppled over yet.
Emeline placed a hand on his shoulder and shook him. “Where’s Samuel?”
“Stop that. Makin’ me dizzy.” He batted at her arm without opening his eyes and naturally missed by a mile.
Lord! He must be completely soused. Emeline frowned. Gentlemen did like to drink too much, and Jasper in particular seemed to be rather overfond of spirits, but she’d never seen him actually drunk. Merry, yes. Drunk, no. And in public, no less. Her worry intensified. “Jasper! What happened in the village? Where is Samuel?”
“He’s dead.”
A thrill of pure horror coursed through Emeline before she realized that this simply could not be. Surely they would’ve heard if Samuel had met with an accident of some sort? Jasper’s head had fallen forward, his chin resting on his chest. Emeline knelt at his feet to try to see his face. “Jasper, darling, please tell me what happened.”
His eyes suddenly opened, shocking turquoise blue and so sad that Emeline gasped. “That feller. Killed himself. Oh, Emmie, it’ll never end, will it?”
She had only a dim idea of what he babbled about, but it was obvious that something terrible had happened in the village. “And Samuel? Where did Samuel go?”
Jasper flung an arm wide and nearly went over backward into the fountain. Emeline caught him about the waist to steady him, although he didn’t seem to notice either his near fall or her help. “Out there somewheres. Took off the moment we got off our horses. Running. Grand runner, Sam is, jus’ grand. Ever seen him run, Emmie?”
“No, I haven’t.” Wherever Samuel was, at least he was alive. Emeline sighed. “Let’s get you to bed, dear one. You shouldn’t be out like this.”
“But I’m not out.” Jasper’s comical bloodhound face contorted in confusion. “I’m with you.”
“Mmm. Nevertheless, I think you’d be far better abed.” Emeline gave an experimental tug at Jasper’s waist. To her surprise, he stood easily. Once upright, he towered over her, swaying slightly. Good Lord, she hoped she could manage him by herself.
“Whatever you wish,” Jasper slurred, and placed a wide pawlike hand on her shoulder. “Wish Sam was here. Then we could have a party.”
“That would be lovely,” Emeline panted as she guided Jasper up the walk. He stumbled slightly and leaned into an orange tree, breaking off a branch. Oh, dear.
“He’s a wonnerful feller, did I tell you?”
“You did mention that.” They were at the door now, and Emeline had a moment of worry, trying to puzzle out how to open it without letting go of Jasper. But he solved the problem by opening the door himself.
“He saved me,” Jasper muttered as they entered the hallway beyond. “Brought back the rescue party jus’ when I thought those savages might cut off me baubles. Oops!” He stopped and looked at her in chagrin. “Not ’spose to say that in front of you, Emmie. D’you know, I think I might be tight.”
“Really, I never would’ve guessed,” Emeline murmured. “I didn’t know Samuel was the one who brought back help.”
“Ran for three days,” Jasper said. “Ran ’an ran ’an ran, even wi’ a knife wound in his side. He’s a grand runner, he is.”
“So you’ve said.” They’d come to the stairs, and Emeline tightened her grip on him. If he fell, he’d bring her down as well; there was no way that she’d be able to hold his weight. And it was a miracle no one had seen them so far.
“It bloodied him, though,” Jasper said.
Emeline had been concentrating on the treads. “What?”
“All that running. His feet were bloody stumps by the time he got to the fort.”
Emeline drew in her breath sharply at the awful image.
“How do you thank a man for doing that?” Jasper asked. “He ran until his feet blistered. Ran until the blisters broke and bled. An’ then kept running.”
“Dear Lord,” Emeline whispered. She’d had no idea. They were at Jasper’s rooms now, and she knew that it wasn’t proper for her to go in, but she couldn’t very well leave him in the hallway. And it was Jasper, for goodness’ sake. He was as close a thing to a brother that she had in this world anymore.
Emeline reached for the doorknob but was saved by the door opening. Pynch, Jasper’s burly valet, stood in the doorway, absolutely expressionless. “Might I assist you, my lady?”
“Oh, thank you, Pynch.” Emeline gratefully handed over her inebriated fiancé. “Can you see to him?”
“Of course, my lady.” If Pynch had shown an expression, it might have been affront, but really it was impossible to tell.
“Thank you.” Emeline was indecently relieved to leave Jasper to Pynch’s care. She flicked a smile at the valet and then hurried back down the stairs.
It was imperative that she find Samuel.
NIGHT WAS FALLING. The sky had taken on that shade of pewter that heralded the end of the day’s light.
And still Sam ran.
He’d been running for hours. Long enough to have reached exhaustion. Long enough to have passed exhaustion into a second wind. Long enough to have lost that wind and simply be enduring now. His body moved in the repetitive rhythm of a machine. Except that machines did not feel despair. However long he ran, he could not outrun his thoughts.
A soldier dead by suicide. To have made it through all the battles, the marching, the rotten food, the cold of winter with inadequate clothing, the diseases that periodically swept the regiment. To make it through all that alive and whole, a near miracle, one of the few to survive the massacre intact. To come home to a neat little cottage and a loving wife. It should’ve all been over. The soldier come home, the war lost to history, and stories by a winter fire. And yet Craddock had stood on a stool, looped a rope about his neck, and kicked the stool away.
Why? That was the question that Sam couldn’t outrun. Why, when you’d already cheated death, why go willingly into her withered arms? Why now?
His breath caught as he crested a hill, his legs trembling with fatigue, his feet slicing with pain with each step. Dark had settled now on the fields he ran through, and he didn’t like it. With each footfall there came the real possibility that he might step wrong. Hit a rabbit hole or rock and fall. But he must not fall. He had to keep running because others depended on him. If he stopped, then his reason for running in the first place would be false. He’d be a coward, merely fleeing a battle. He wasn’t a coward. He’d survived battle. He’d killed men, both white and Indian. He’d come through the war and become a gentleman, a man of means and respect. Others depended on him; others nodded gravely at his opinions. Hardly anyone accused him of cowardliness anymore—at least not to his face.