No one had seen or heard from John Marshall in close to ten years. Most assumed he had arrived safely in Montgomery, but without confirmation, there were those who worried still.

“Penelope, are you still cleaning in there?”

“No… I… yes, mother. It’s just that I—”

“You saw his face again, didn’t you?”

“I did.” The young woman stood at the sink, hands pruning up in the dishwater, and sighed. “It’s the same expression every time. Murderous but, behind those bloodshot eyes, he’s sad. He’s just staring at me from the back of the coach, riding away into the night.”

“Honey, you’ve got to let him go.”

“I can’t. He knew something. He told me he wouldn’t make it past the border. I went to hug him, and—”

“He pulled away, I know, we’ve been through this a thousand times.”

“He said he was going to die, mama.”

Mrs. Caldwell was a gentle little creature, face worn with years and a very knowing smile. She strode across the kitchen and placed her hand upon her daughter’s shoulder.

“I’m sure he’s just fine, dear.”