I HEFT THE GUN to my shoulder, feeling its familiar weight and the heat of the metal through my dress. Sighting along the barrel, I curl my finger around the trigger. The world shrinks around my target as I breathe in.
Exhaling, I squeeze.
An explosion of sound, and the tin can twenty yards away topples from its perch.
“Told you so, George,” I mutter, letting the stock fall to rest on a fence post. The horses in the field alongside me swish their tails, slapping insects from their flanks. The gunshot stilled the relentless cicada hum for a moment; with a hot ticking, it begins again. I reach a hand up to wipe the sweat from my neck.
A shimmering heat haze rises along the rutted track leading from our farm to town, and as I reload the muzzle, squinting at the remaining row of cans, a plume of dust swirls up and takes shape. It’s a moment before I recognize the motion as that of an approaching rider.
I smile, making a dash at my hair and dress, slapping the worst of the grime from my skirts. I hadn’t thought to see Connor today. But even as I smooth my hair, I realize that it isn’t him. The horse is the same shade of chestnut as Connor’s mare, but the rider has none of his ease in the saddle.
My stomach turns over. I remember the last time George and I welcomed a stranger to our farm: a doctor who charged too much, who told us nothing could be done. I fight back a rising tide of dread. If George has been hurt … But no, if anything’s happened, the news wouldn’t come from town.
I hold the rifle in both hands, across my body so the rider can see it. He’s wearing a jacket and breeches of pale gray, reddened with dust and nicer by far than what my brother wears on Sundays. His hair is pale under his hat, and the beginnings of an unpromising mustache grace his lip. The jacket, store-bought by the look of it, slumps damply about his slight form, and a slender leather case rests over the front of the saddle. If he’s armed, I can’t see his gun.
As he approaches, he throws up a hand. “Young lady! Hold your fire!” Grinning at me, he reins in the horse with a dusty flourish.
I tip the gun so that its muzzle points to the ground and move toward the steaming horse. “You’re far from town,” I say to the stranger.
He dismounts, his leather shoes hitting the packed earth with a thump. I’m no longer afraid, just curious—this fellow couldn’t best a city girl in a fight, much less a farm girl with a rifle. Bowing slightly, he offers his hand. His nails are perfect, clean crescents.
“Good afternoon, miss. I apologize for arriving with no prior notice, but I wasn’t sure how to announce myself ahead of time.” He gestures around, as if to underscore the lack of a postbox. “My name is Herman DeLaney. I’m a solicitor with Cryer and Thompson, and I’ve come to you from New York City.”
He says this with a satisfied air that I’d take more seriously from a larger man.
“I’m Katherine Randolph,” I say. “And I come from right here.” I hold my dirt- and oil-smeared hand out partway, waiting to see whether he’ll take it. After a moment’s hesitation, he does.
As I tie his mount to the hitching post, he runs his eyes over our house. I see it as he does: sun-bleached boards, dilapidated but well kept. A sagging porch, though freshly swept. And lovely painted flowers winding up from the house’s baseboards—our flower beds haven’t thrived in the heat, but my brother’s artistic talents produce blooms far lovelier than anything I could have grown.
I call the man’s attention back from the flowering boards. “Mr. DeLaney, I must ask. For what purpose have you traveled all the way from New York?”
He turns toward me, a slight smile flickering about his mouth. “Is George Randolph at home?”
“My brother has gone to look at a stallion in Paulstown.” I remember that this man is not from these parts, and amend myself. “That’s ten miles away. He should be back by evening. You’re welcome, of course, to return tomorrow.”
The man just smiles and removes his hat, wiping his forehead with a cornflower-blue handkerchief he produces from inside his dusty coat.
“If it’s all right with you, Miss Randolph, I believe I’ll wait.” He sits back on the hitching post with a sigh. “I have something very important to discuss with Mr. Randolph.”
“Something so important that it can’t wait one day?”
He leans forward, his toes just touching the ground. “Indeed.” He taps his leather case with a manicured finger. “Pardon me for being forward, but I believe I am about to change your fortunes.”
I feel a confused thrill at his words. What could this beanpole of a city man be carrying that would support his claim? “My brother won’t return until well after sundown, sir—and it’s far too hot to be left in anticipation.”
He laughs at my words, settling himself more comfortably on his post. “Perhaps you’re right. You are a Randolph, after all. Let’s start with this: Have you ever wished to see England?”