Epilogue

EPILOGUE

January 1815 Marwicktow, North Carolina

"I'm worried for him." Georgina slipped under four layers of quilts, each a gift from neighboring settlers, as the wooden bed frame creaked. The room smelled of fresh-hewn pine and river birch. The lantern sputtered a glow across the walls—the thick, barked logs, the curtained window, the paintings she'd hung. "It is too cold. He should not be out there."

"He is a strong boy."

She leaned up. "Perhaps I should take him one of our quilts—"

"Wife." Simon pulled her back down, arm slipping under her, shifting her against him. His warmth poured over her with heart-pounding pleasure. "He will be fine."

"You are right."

"A boy has to prove himself."

"I know."

"He would rather freeze than see us running out to him now, as if he was a child."

"But he is." Georgina tilted her face up, her hand roaming his chest, then his neck, then his strong and sunburnt face. "He is just too much his father to know it."

"Are you accusing me, Wife?" A whisper against her forehead, a smile in the tone.

He smiled a lot lately. She was not sure when that happened—whether before they left England, or during the months on board ship, or afterward when they had chopped trees and hammered nails in the springtime snow.

But every morning, when she woke up, it was there.

All throughout the day, it twinkled.

Even now, in the darkness, as she glanced up at him again—it burned and radiated and softened his eyes, the most tender expression of happiness anyone had ever bestowed on her.

"I love you." Perhaps she should not say the words so often. She never had to anyone else. But they throbbed through her, all day long, every day, until she could not help but speak them.

His mouth swept across hers. He pressed hard and deep, the pull of him sucking her under a wave of oblivion and sweetness. "You sorry we came here?"

The first time he had ever asked such a question.

Her chest pulsed with too many emotions to comprehend. "You know I am not."

"And if things get hard?"

"John is not the only one," she whispered, "who is strong."

He dipped in for a second kiss, but the bedroom door crashed open. "Papa! Mamma!" Mercy raced to the bed and scrambled atop it, grabbing Georgina's hand. "Come quick. Hurry. John said they came!"

"They'll be there in the morning." Simon fought a yawn. "Mercy, it is late."

"Please, Papa. Me can't wait." When Georgina gave her a look, Mercy grinned. " I can't wait. Please?"

"Go and get on your coat, then." He pulled back the covers as the child whooped and raced from the room, and by the time Simon and Georgina were dressed and ready, Mercy was already jumping up and down at the cabin door. "Now we can go?"

Simon grabbed the lantern and rifle. "Yes, now."

Squealing, she undid the latch, trekked out into snow that reached her knees, and disappeared into the barn before Simon and Georgina had made it halfway.

When they entered, the musky scent of hay and horsehide tickled Georgina's cold nose, as she followed Simon to the farthest-left stall, where John's own lantern already glowed a dying orange.

"Over here." Mercy was already on her knees, stroking Jenny the foxhound by her black-brown ears. "Oh, John, there's so many. They're so little. Can I touch them?"

John's cheeks and nose blazed red, but his dimples flashed with a grin. "Just be easy. Like this." With slow and careful movements, he lifted a tiny black-and-white ball of fur to his chest. "This one came out first. I'm gonna keep him."

"Me too?" Mercy plucked a puppy of her own. She giggled. "Papa, me—I can keep one too?"

"We promised two to Blayney for hunting. One to Widow Bergmark." Simon crunched hay as he scooted closer and sat on his legs. He grinned. "The rest we can keep."

"Thank you, Papa! Thank you!" Mercy seemed as if she was not certain whether to throw herself into Simon's arms, or scoop all the puppies against her at once. She kissed the one in her hands instead. "This one will be Snowy. Since it snowed the night he was born, and he has this little white place on his nose."

"It's beautiful," Georgina crooned. She lowered next to Simon, leaned against his shoulder as the children talked over each other.

"Which one you want?" John wiped a runny nose. "You can pick any of them. Even mine if you want it."

"They're all so lovely." Georgina hugged Simon's arm, her breath in puffs. "How could I ever choose?"

"I'll pick for you." Mercy grabbed one from its mother's belly and deposited it in Georgina's lap. "You like it?"

"Yes." Georgina stroked the wet, shivering creature, and an overwhelming sense of contentment rushed through her. She glanced up at them—all the faces in the dim lantern light, the happy chatter, the puppy chirps and grunts, the glowing eyes that kept landing on her every second or two. My sweet God, how could I ever thank You for this?

She belonged.

She did not know what awaited them in America, here at this homestead. Whether the crops would be good or bad, whether the winters would be stinging or lulling, whether the table would always have plenty or some days not enough.

But she knew one thing.

The ones in this barn stall, tonight, would not forsake her. They were hers. They would stay. Whether the future was harsh or gentle, they loved her too much to ever disappear.

She need never fear being left again.

"Come here." A husky voice whispered in her ear, as Simon's cold fingers touched her chin and angled her face into his. His precious lips swam over hers. And she knew, for the thousandth time, why Simon Fancourt had haunted her heart for so many long years.

He was not a man to be forgotten.

Ever.