Mercy bolted out the general’s door, heedless of the stares of milling soldiers. Without slowing her stride, she crossed the parade ground and raced to the sanctity of the women’s tents. This being an outpost garrison, the men were afforded timbered shelters. The women got canvas, unless they were an officer’s wife. There were only six ladies living in the tents—three who refused to leave their husbands, herself, and two who stayed simply because they had nowhere else to go.

Flinging aside the door flap, she ducked inside and closed the stained canvas behind her. Three empty cots were lined up before her like fallen soldiers. The farthest one called her weary bones to lie down and forget the world. Pah! As if she could. The general’s words boiled her blood hotter with each pump of her heart.

“You will be wed by tomorrow.”

“We’ll see about that,” she muttered, glad her tentmates were either out washing regimentals or nursing sick soldiers. “Men! Pigheaded, the lot of them.”

Reaching up, she fumbled at her collar and pulled out the locket she never took off. She ran her thumb over the center of a ruby heart, surrounded by gold filigree, and slowed her breathing. Years ago, she’d worn the necklace out of rebellion. Now the heavy stone was a weight of penance and—oddly enough—comfort.

Oh Mother…

Wind riffled the canvas walls. She felt more alone now than she had in years.

With a sigh, she shrugged off a man’s trade shirt that hung to her knees, untied her leggings and peeled them off, and lastly loosened the breechclout at her waist. She’d have to hang them up to dry before packing them away, but for now, she gave the heap a good kick, tired of straddling the line between male and female, native and white. Tired of everything, really.

Shivering, she knelt in front of her trunk and opened the lid. Pulling out a clean gown and undergarments, she frowned at the feminine attire as fiercely as she’d scowled at the hunting clothes. Why was she so different? Why could she not be like other women?

She blew out a sigh and slipped into a dry shift and front-lacing stays, knowing all the while there were no answers to be had. She’d been born different, and there was nothing to be done about that.

After retrieving a hairbrush, she closed the lid on her trunk and sank onto its top. For the moment, she set the brush in her lap, then began the arduous process of unpinning her long hair, her thoughts every bit as snarly. Why must everyone push her into marriage, as if she were some precious bauble that required protection? Little good it had done her mother. Brushing her hair with more force than necessary, she winced. In a man’s world, survival came by acting and thinking like a man.

With deft fingers, she braided her hair into a long tail and was tying a leather lace at the end when footsteps pounded the ground outside her tent.

“Mercy, come on out.” Matthew’s voice leached through the weathered canvas. “We need to talk.”

She dropped her hands to her lap. What was there to say? She’d given her answer. Not even a war party of Wyandots could make her change her mind.

“I know you’re in there,” he growled. “And I won’t go away.”

Of course he wouldn’t. She rolled her eyes. The man was as determined as a river swollen by winter melt. Tucking up a stray strand, she rose and opened the flap. “You’re wasting your time. I will not entertain the general’s suggestion.”

“At least hear me out. Then make up your mind.” He held up a blackened tin pot. “Besides, I’ve brought stew. Don’t tell me you’re not hungry.”

Her stomach growled, and she frowned. Of all the inopportune times to remind him—and her—that she was human.

Matthew smirked.

She sighed. Ignoring him would sure be a lot easier with a belly full of hot food. “Very well. Give me a moment.”

Darting back inside, she retrieved a shawl, then grabbed a horn spoon and wooden bowl.

Outside, Matthew already sat on a log next to a smoldering fire, dipping his spoon into his own bowl. She joined him. The rich scent of broth curling up to her nose nearly made her weep. And the first bite…aah. There wasn’t much finer in the world than thick stew on a chill day—especially after going without for so long.

She shoveled in a mouthful before eyeing Matthew sideways. “What’d you trade for this?”

“Rum.”

“Your loss. Much as I’m obliged”—she paused for another big bite—“I won’t be bought for a bowl of pottage.”

“’Course not.” Afternoon sun glinted off the stew droplets collecting on Matthew’s beard as he spoke. “You’re worth far more than that.”

The soup in her mouth soured, and she swallowed it like a bitter medicine. The man was forever prattling on about God’s great love for her. “Don’t start, Matthew. I can’t bear a sermon right now.”

“Fair enough.” Lifting the bowl to his lips, Matthew tipped back his head and finished the rest of his meal. He swiped his mouth with his sleeve while setting down the dish, then angled to face her head-on. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do, but despite the danger of it, General Bragg’s plan is solid. Like he said, with clear weather, it’ll take but a fortnight to get the load over to Fort Edward.”

“Fort Edward?” Her appetite suddenly stalled. The rangers were stationed out of that fort. Matthew’s former cohort. Was this his way of saying goodbye?

She swallowed, the stew having lost its appeal. “I see.”

His brows gathered together like a coming storm. “No, you don’t. When it comes to that falcon eyesight of yours, you are unequaled. But in matters of the heart, you are blind.”

“Matthew!” She spluttered and choked. After three years of scouting sorties with this man, surely he wasn’t pledging troth to her. He was old enough to be her father!

“Certainly you are not hinting at…” She cleared her throat once more, unable to force out any more words.

For a moment his eyes narrowed, then shot wide. His shoulders shook as he chuckled. “No, girl. Nothing like that. Look at me, Mercy. Really look. What do you see?”

Lowering her bowl, she focused first on her breaths. In. Out. Slower. And slower. Sound was next. One by one, she closed off the hum of the camp—the whickering of a horse, coarse laughter from afar. The thud of men tromping about. Even the beat of her own pulse quieted until silence took on a life of its own. Only then could she see, and in the seeing, her heart broke.

Where whiskers were absent, lines etched a life map on Matthew Prinn’s face. A chart of the years—decades—of toil and grief. Spent vigor peppered his beard and hair that were once raven. Even his eyes were washed out and gray now. In the three years she’d known him, he’d earned a new scar near his temple and a larger bump on his nose—all in the service of the king.

And her.

She set her bowl on the log beside her, no longer hungry. “What I see is a great man who faithfully serves the crown, relentlessly brings back intelligence, and keeps me safe in the process.”

He shook his head. “That is what you want to see. The truth of it is I’m tired. This fight is winding down, and so am I.” Pausing, he looked up at a sky as sullen as the furrows on his forehead. “I aim to go to Fort Edward, then keep on going east till I find me a nice patch of land and put down stakes.”

“You’re going to quit? Just like that?”

“’Tis been a long time coming.” His gaze found hers again. “You did not see it because you did not want to.”

The accusation crept in like a rash, hot and uncomfortable. Of course she did not want to see it, because if she did, she’d have to look long and hard at her own life. She dropped her gaze and picked at the frayed hem of her shawl. He’d sacrificed time and again these past three years for her. Time now she returned the favor.

“I understand, Matthew. Truly.”

A grunt resounded in his chest. “Good. Then we’re agreed.”

She jerked her face upward. “But that doesn’t mean I will marry.”

His teeth flashed white in his beard. “I did not say it did.”

“But the general said—”

Matthew held up a hand. “If you’d have stayed long enough to hear the man out, you’d know we’ll travel as a family unit in name only, not deed. Rufus and I—”

“Rufus Bragg?” She spit out the name like an unripe huckleberry.

“Aye. We will both have a cross to bear. He is to pose as my grandson, and he and I will man the rear wagon. You will ride the lead, scouting for trouble as always.”

Picking up a stick, she stabbed at the coals in the fire, stirring them to life. “With my husband, no doubt.”

“Like I said, in name only.” His hand snaked out and stilled her frantic poking. “Why are you so skittish over this? I’ve never known you to back down from a request to serve. What of your high ideals of duty and honor?”

She pulled from his touch, wishing it could be as easy to shy from his question. But she couldn’t, for truth once spoken could not be unheard. “You’re right,” she mumbled. Slowly, she lifted her face to his. “But what shall I do without you?”

“Time you took stock of your own future, girl. Where is it to be? What is it to be? With whom is it to be spent?”

She jumped to her feet, grabbing up her bowl and spoon. She’d rather run barelegged through a patch of poison oak than consider the answers to those inquiries, for she wanted nothing more than to remain unfettered and free. “If we are to leave at daybreak, I need to pack and get some rest.”

She whirled toward her tent, then turned back. “Tell me, Matthew, who is to be my, er…” The word stuck in her throat, and she forced it out past a clenched jaw. “Husband?”

He stood, gathering the tin pot and his bowl. “Fellow by the name of Dubois, more than likely.”

“Dubois?” The French name festered like a raw boil, the food in her stomach churning. “Pah! I’m to be married to a Frenchman?”

“Oh, he is more than that.”

Her hands shot to her hips. “What aren’t you telling me, Matthew Prinn?”

“Dubois,” he drawled, leveling a cocked eyebrow at her, “is a condemned traitor.”