For two days in mid-June Yankees had camped on Amanda’s lawn. She woke to wagons creaking on the main road. The Army of the Potomac was on the move. Thankful the squatters had left, she had shooed foragers from the chicken coop the previous morning. A poplar switch had been ammunition enough to send the culprits skedaddling.
Sam had tried to persuade her to seek refuge in Washington, but cut off from her family, she couldn’t leave without word of their safety. No news from Alice was an excuse. She had no intention of abandoning the farm.
As Amanda crossed the kitchen’s red brick floor, she got a whiff of biscuits laced with honey. Sam kept them stocked in basic provisions, but with the army moving, everyday necessities would likely grow scarce. The warm spring morning suddenly seemed cold.
“Breakfast nearly ready, Miss Amanda.” The hunched blind servant pulled a tin of piping-hot biscuits from the oven. “You sit down and rest afore da baby come.”
Amanda pressed a hand to her rounded belly. “The baby won’t be here for another two months, Frieda.”
Frieda pointed a bony finger. “You work too hard. Won’t be no time to rest once da baby here.”
Amanda sat in a pole-backed chair at the table. “You coddle me.”
“If I don’t look after you, den who does?” Her sightless eyes widened as if they could see. “Miss Amanda, our comp’ny back.”
“Yankees?” Trusting Frieda’s instinct, she had best check. Too heavy with child to hustle, Amanda waddled to the parlor. She parted the lace curtain to at least a dozen men in blue outside the picket fence. One man, big as a bull, began ripping the fence apart. As others joined him, she grabbed the rifle over the mantel and went outside.
Fence rails splintered, and Amanda fired over their heads. A chestnut horse reared, nearly unseating its rider. “You will leave the premises,” Amanda shouted.
“Ma’am...” A bucktooth lieutenant regained control of his mount. “Don’t mean to alarm you, but we’re requisitioning supplies.”
Reloaded, Amanda replaced the ramrod and aimed the rifle. “You have no right to destroy my property. My husband is Major Samuel Prescott—”
“Of the Reb army?” With a sneer, he shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am—”
“Sorry indeed. Major Prescott is Federal infantry.”
The lieutenant straightened in the saddle. “Then Major Prescott should have posted a guard. I have orders.”
Sam had posted a guard, but when the army started moving, the guard went with it. Another board cracked from the picket fence. “I have a small child in the house. Please...”
His face held firm. The lieutenant dismounted and confiscated her rifle.
Fearing for Rebecca’s safety, Amanda hurried as fast as she was capable to the house and up the stairs. On the trundle bed sprawled Rebecca, her legs and arms tossing in a bad dream. Though she was Sam’s daughter from his first marriage, these Yankees didn’t care a whit about their own kind.
“Rebecca...” Before she stirred awake, Amanda climbed in next to the girl and hugged her.
With a whimper, Rebecca started to cry.
Amanda brushed dark hair from Rebecca’s face. “It’s all right, Rebecca.”
Sniffling, the child tightened her grip. “Mama.” Amanda heard the front door open and nasal voices downstairs. Rebecca shrieked as if in pain, “Mama!”
Amanda held Rebecca until she was still. She should have listened to Sam and sought refuge. Only one woman against the entire Yankee army, she wasn’t strong enough. Not alone. When Sam found out, he’d have their blue-bottomed hides. But where was Sam? He was most likely moving with the army.
The nasal voices laughed.
What right did they have terrifying innocent women and children? Amanda pressed two fingers to her lips. “You must keep quiet, Rebecca. Mama’s going to see that those men leave.”
Big blue eyes filled with tears, and Rebecca choked back a sob. Amanda tiptoed from the room and down the stairs.
In the parlor two men in blue stretched on the tapestry sofa. Laughing and joking between them, one smoked Sam’s pipe.
Her eyes narrowed, and Amanda made a beeline for the study. She withdrew a pistol from the desk drawer. Trembling, she raised the pistol and returned to the parlor. “Is taking over my house as if you owned it part of your thievery?”
The private with the pipe stood. His wispy moustache turned up slightly at the ends, and he smiled. The smile was a familiar one from the hospital. She had written letters of reassurance to his family in Pennsylvania and washed his feverish forehead. A boyish face in the hospital—it seemed harsher here.
She nearly screamed. Steady—she must keep her wits and hold the pistol steady. “How can you repay my letter writing with treachery? Does your mama know how you treat Southern citizens? She would be ashamed.”
With an arrogant grin the private set the pipe down and edged closer. “I’ll not have you speaking ill of my mother.”
The other Yankee got to his feet and circled the opposite direction. “Stop, or I will shoot.”
Daring her, the private kept moving toward her. Aim to the side of him. She gritted her teeth and squeezed the trigger. In a puff of smoke, a blast rocked the house. He faltered. Shock appeared on his face, then he clutched his arm. “She shot me! The bitch shot me!”
His partner had her arm, twisting it so hard that the pistol fell from her hand.
“Apparently you boys misunderstood orders,” the bucktooth lieutenant said, entering the parlor. “Collect rations.”
The private waved a bloody arm. “She shot me!”
“It’s a graze, Private. Now see to your duty.” The lieutenant scooped the pistol from the floor and tucked it in his belt.
She clenched a hand. “I tended him in the hospital, and this is how he repays me.”
“My apology, ma’am.”
“How can an apology suffice?”
“Ma’am, quite frankly, I don’t give a lick if you accept the apology or not. I have orders.”
“And how many more innocent families will you defile?”
The lieutenant glared. “If you cause any more trouble, I’ll have you bound and gagged.” With an about turn, he followed his men to the kitchen.
The Yankees had won. Except to watch, she was powerless. They would always win. A crash of glass shattering came from the kitchen. More feet stomped around other parts of the house.
Amanda closed her eyes. The Yankees wouldn’t be satisfied until all Southerners starved. The kitchen door slammed, and she heard men laughing outside.
A pistol went off. She hurried toward the kitchen. Careful to step over pitcher shards, she went out to the back steps.
Running fingers through Ezra’s curly, gray hair, the Yankees pestered him.
She waved a fist at them. “Leave him be!”
“It’s all right, Miss Amanda. Dey just funnin’.”
“That’s right.” The private with the wispy moustache sneered and raised his pistol to the sky. “We’re just funnin’. Now dance.”
Ezra pasted on a compliant grin and jigged. Not a simpleminded Negro, he obeyed to protect them.
Follow his example and don’t let the Yankees see humiliation. They would eventually grow weary of no sport. Above all else, they mustn’t see her cry. Determined to keep her poise, Amanda raised her head.
A well-fed soldier, unlike so many Southern boys, climbed in the seat of a wagon. Loaded with boards from the picket fence for Yankee campfires, the wagon creaked down the tree-lined lane. Hooting and waving hats, several men galloped after the wagon.
A freckle-faced private in blue led her gray mare from the barn. A hand went to her mouth to keep from crying out. Not her mare—she was the only horse left in the barn. In foal, the gray would be of limited use. Nothing good would come of protesting.
Amanda said a silent prayer, when a warning shot fired from across the farmyard. More Yankees—dear Lord, what would she do now? But a familiar blue-roan gelding trotted into the open with Wil in a simple gray uniform and no insignia. Left-handed, he leveled his pistol to the lieutenant’s chest.
Wil wasn’t left-handed. What was he up to?
“You boys have overstayed your welcome,” Wil said to the Yankees.
The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed, and he spat in the dirt. “I only see you Reb.”
“I have a boy in the loft and several more in the woods ready to take yours down if the mare isn’t returned to the lady. Test me, Billy. You’ll be the first to die.”
The lieutenant eyed Wil, then glanced to the hayloft. Amanda saw a figure crouch. She swallowed hard. Wil wasn’t bluffing.
The lieutenant nodded, and the freckle-faced private draped the mare’s lead rope in her hands. The Yankees were getting on their horses and riding away.
As hooves clattered down the lane, the pistol dropped from Wil’s hand. With a groan, he toppled from the saddle.
“Wil!” By his side, Amanda kneeled.
“You should...,” he gasped, short of breath, “learn poker, Amanda.”
“Poker? Wil, you’re hurt.”
Alice was beside them, bending down and unfastening Wil’s jacket. He forced a laugh. “Meet... my boy. Mighty fine looking one. Don’t you think?”
Perplexed, she glanced from Wil to Alice. “Alice, what’s going on?”
“He insisted on helping you. I’ll explain the rest later. Let’s get him to the house.”
Amanda stepped out of the way as Ezra moved in to help.
After making Wil comfortable in the back bedroom, Alice relayed the events that had transpired over the past couple of months. Though exhausted, her sister beamed when speaking about Wil’s heroics. Amanda had already spotted the signs, but she felt uneasy about Alice’s affection toward him. Only after agreeing that she’d check on Wil did her sister relent to getting some rest.
Amanda cracked open the door to the back bedroom. “Wil?” She went inside.
Extremely pale, he was lying on his side. If the bullet had gone through him, it probably helped ease the pain.
She reached for his hand, but thought better of it. “I have some laudanum.”
With his splinted right hand, he had difficulty gripping the cup, but he drank the mixture down. Not the sort of man to complain about pain, he was definitely hurting something fierce if he gave no protest.
“I want to thank you for what you did.”
He merely nodded.
“Forgive me if I appear insensitive,” she continued, “but I’m worried about Alice. It’s not proper for her to be caring for you the way she has been.”
“Forgive me, Amanda.” He handed her the empty cup. “But I’m in no mood to give a damn about proprieties.”
“She loves you.”
He laid his head against the feather pillow and closed his eyes. “That is her misfortune.”
“Then I’d appreciate it if you don’t lead her on.”
He laughed but quickly sucked in his breath. “Tell me what I should refrain from doing, and I’ll gladly stop. But right now, I can barely make it to the chamber pot by myself.”
“Wil... I have always been able to talk to you in a straightforward manner.”
He opened his eyes and met her gaze. “That was then.”
She gritted her teeth.
“Amanda, you can stop fretting. I haven’t compromised your sister, and I’ll leave for Richmond just as soon as I’m capable. Besides, jealousy doesn’t become you.”
Jealousy? How dare he... She crossed her arms above her rounding abdomen. “What makes you think I’m jealous?”
“Because if you weren’t, you’d be having this talk with Alice, not me.”
“A near-death experience hasn’t changed you in the least. You’re still arrogant and stubborn.”
“And you, Mrs. Prescott, still have difficulty facing the truth.”
“Need I remind you that you are the one who burned the letter telling me how you felt?”
His eyes grew harsh. “If I had mailed it, would things have been any different? You certainly didn’t waste any time getting knocked up by my former lieutenant when you thought I was dead.”
Choking back a sob, Amanda clapped a hand over her mouth. Tempted to bolt, she held her ground, but she mustn’t let him see her cry.
“Amanda, I’m sorry,” he said in a softer voice.
“For what you just said or for not mailing the letter?” She could no longer fight the tears. He reached out to brush them away, but she stepped back. “There’s no sense in discussing this any further. What’s done is done.”
Without looking back, she left the room.
Smoke puffed from the farmhouse’s chimney. Amanda must have already gone to bed. The place was dark. After Sam stabled his horse in the barn, Holly met him on the steps. He pressed two fingers to his lips for her to keep quiet.
Careful not to wake the household, he tiptoed through the front door and dropped his gear in the foyer. He motioned for Holly to wait for him there. His new leather boots creaked, and every step echoed against the wood floor.
By the stairs, he heard a pistol cock behind him. He raised his hands and turned.
The gun lowered. “I could have shot you, Prescott.”
“Jackson, what are you doing here?”
Lowering his head as if in pain, Jackson eased into the wing chair. “I received a furlough—courtesy of a Yankee bullet,” he said dryly. “Obviously, if you’re here, I’m in Federal lines. Arrest me, and be done with it.”
Embers in the fireplace glowed, casting shadows throughout the room, but enough light penetrated to see Jackson’s drawn face. “Actually, you’re in no-man’s-land. Most of the army has moved.” Jackson glanced up, and Sam pointed. “How bad?”
“Concern? Or comparing battle scars?”
“Captain...” His former commander’s rank was out before he thought about it.
“Damn Yank nearly killed me.”
Betrayed by the edge in Jackson’s voice, Sam realized that his former commander wasn’t out of danger yet. “I’m relieved you’re here.”
Jackson eyed him skeptically. “So I can hide from foraging parties?”
“If I had been a deserter, I would have been dead. I wanted Amanda to go to Washington, but she refused to leave.”
“That surprises you?”
“I’ve learned the depth of Southern stubbornness the hard way,” Sam admitted.
To this statement, Jackson laughed but his hand went flying to his chest. “Things haven’t changed.”
Green in New Mexico, Sam had been assigned by Jackson to lead a company, if one could call it a company—a handful of men really. The desert was unforgiving of mistakes. A three-day reconnaissance turned into five. Only severe water rationing had brought his men out alive. It seemed a lifetime ago. “I suppose everything comes easily to you?”
“We’re more alike than you might think. Now go see your wife before she accuses me of holding you prisoner.” Jackson clamped his eyes shut and leaned his head back.
“That’s right, Sam,” Holly said, stepping into the parlor, “go see your wife.”
Jackson’s eyes shot open. “Prescott, you could have warned me.”
With a laugh, Sam returned to the stairs. Boots creaking, he reached the top and opened the door to Amanda’s room. No fire was lit, and the room was cold. He closed the door behind him and undressed. He joined Amanda in bed. Let her sleep. He snuggled to her prone form, relishing in her warmth.
“Sam?” came a groggy voice.
“Amanda.” He touched her rounding belly. The war gave life in peculiar ways, and he sometimes wondered if the baby was the only reason she had married him.
She sat up. “Sam, it is you.” With kisses to his face, she threw her arms around his neck.
After the morning, months might pass before seeing her again—if ever. His contrary thoughts gave way to an intense need. In the dark, he lifted her nightdress.
“I’m much too fat.”
“You’re not fat.”
“I have a belly the size of a twenty-pound turkey. You don’t call that fat?”
“You’re going to have a baby. That doesn’t mean you’re fat. Amanda, I don’t know when I’ll get back this way again.” He tossed the nightdress to the side and drew her atop him. With him stationed nearby in recent months, they had become complacent, avoiding the day when it would be necessary for him to leave again.
Joined as one, she must have felt it too. Her face was damp, and he tasted salt from her tears. Running his hands down her bare back and around to her belly, he broke the rhythm. Would the baby know him?
“Don’t think about it, Sam.”
“Can’t help it, Amanda. Rebecca doesn’t know I’m her father, and now...”
Rolling to his side, she fell into the crook of his arm. She placed his hand to her belly.
Beneath his fingertips, the baby kicked. Damn—his moods had a habit of interfering with the precious moments they had.
“Rebecca calls you papa, and you shall see the baby. You must believe that.”
“Amanda, I brought supplies and... Holly.”
Her arms tensed. “Holly? Sam, how could you? You know how I feel about her.”
“She tended wounded after the battle. It’s not safe for her to return to Washington now. It’ll only be for a few days. No matter what else she’s done, she is my brother’s widow.”
“I don’t have a room for her.”
He snorted a laugh. “Jackson’s?”
Amanda whacked a pillow across his ribs. “I’ll not have such dalliances in my house. Besides, I don’t think they’re friendly anymore.”
“Friendly? Is that what they were?” The pillow thumped him again. “Put her in the barn. I don’t care.”
“A big help you are.” With a sigh, Amanda added, “I shall move Wil to the empty cabin. I’d rather send that woman there, but Frieda would probably pound Holly over the head with a skillet.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her on the mouth. With her legs on each side of him and gentle rocking, they coupled. Only after their energy was spent did Sam sleep. At the light of dawn, he woke. Already awake, Amanda watched him. Clinging to what little time was left, they shared each other again.
As the household stirred to life, he heard Alice in the hall with Rebecca. Time to leave. But Amanda was here—in his arms.
The door burst open, and Rebecca charged in, complaining she was hungry. Amanda ducked, yanking the quilt to her neck. He nearly split a gut laughing, while she sent the toddler downstairs with Alice.
All of the precious things he had missed. More of those days were to come. At breakfast, Sam couldn’t force himself to eat grits. With the supplies he had brought, there was plenty of food. But for how long?
He played with Rebecca a while, then said goodbye to his former commander. None of them would have needed to fret. Jackson had retreated to the cabin without being asked. Afterward, Sam went to saddle his horse.
The blind servant, Frieda, met him in the barn. “I ain’t goin’ to be here when you get back, Mr. Sam.”
“Where?” His jaw dropped. The old woman hinted that she’d be dead by the time he returned. If it hadn’t been for her medicine, he would have lost his leg and possibly his life as well.
“Don’t grieve none, Mr. Sam. I live a long life, an’ ’cause of Miss Amanda, I be free. Da war goin’ to be rough on her. She need you, an’ you need to be careful, if you goin’ to come out alive.”
A warning. The wrinkles on her face were more pronounced than usual. He wondered exactly how old she was. “I’ll be careful,” he promised. Life around the farm wouldn’t be the same without Frieda. He hugged the old woman, and a toothless grin formed on her mouth.
With a goodbye, she waved her cherry walking stick in front of her and shuffled from the barn.
Finished saddling, Sam led the blood-red stallion outside.
Amanda stood where the picket fence used to be, holding Rebecca’s hand. Her eyes were puffy from crying, and she crossed the farmyard.
Sam swept her into his arms and kissed her. Rebecca danced up and down for a kiss like Mama’s. He laughed at her antics. She did know him—for now. His last sight was the two of them waving. Tears streaked Amanda’s cheeks.
He whispered goodbye.
Too late—their pact had been to never say goodbye, unless it was for good.
Wil heard her voice—Peopeo’s. She had come to him in the night and announced their son was dead. With no emotion, he lingered on her message. Their son was dead. When she had needed him most, he had been unable to take her in his arms and comfort her.
Few soldiers cared when measles claimed Indian lives. Day and night, she had tended Benjamin, but with no medicine available, the boy had died. Then when he got sick, she had risked her life to secure medicine and paid the price.
As far as outsiders were concerned, it wasn’t a real marriage recognized by the church. She hadn’t existed and neither had their son. He vowed no one would ever see that side of him again.
Ready to join Peopeo and Benjamin, he waited for death to claim him, but for some reason, he had been spared yet again.
When Wil woke, a woman in a floral dress sat in a rocking chair beside the bed. His memory was vague, but he had spent most of the night pacing the floorboards. Pain had kept him awake, then when he slept, buried memories returned to the surface.
More recently, he recalled Amanda in trouble and the Yankee foragers. With Alice’s help, the Yankees had believed their deception. “Alice?”
“The dear girl needs some time away from you.”
Not Alice, but Holly Prescott. Wil blinked, and her beaming face came into focus. “What are you doing here?”
“Paying my respects.”
No one would enjoy seeing him suffer more. Short of breath, he waved for her to leave. “You have done so.”
A familiar sly look appeared in her eyes. “The least you can do is act happy to see me.”
“Why?”
She gave a curt grin. “For old times’ sake.”
The tattered curtain fluttered as a summer breeze swept through the open window. There was a dull ache in his chest, but he managed to sit. Had he been lying there for hours—or days? Time jumbled in a laudanum haze. “Miss McGuire assured me you were paid.”
“Paid?” Fluttering her eyelashes, Holly widened her grin. “Wil, I don’t want money. I told you—”
“I heard what you said.”
She sent him a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Then I fear I don’t understand your foul mood.”
She should have been an actress. “Your wish that I rot in some Yankee prison might have something to do with it.”
“Oh that...” Holly flicked a hand, dismissing it. “I was mourning the loss of my husband. You were an easy target.”
As she sidled onto the bed beside him, he caught a whiff of her perfume—definitely up to her old games.
“Sam says the bullet went straight through you. So how do we know you weren’t really shot in the back? Tell me, Wil, how fast were you running?”
Baiting him, she was trying to draw anger to the surface. Ignore it. His gaze locked with hers. “Obviously not fast enough.”
With a laugh, she clapped her hands. “Such wit. But then you always could make me laugh.”
Don’t react—she’d relish it if he did.
Her finger traced the bandage swathing his chest. “I’ve been concerned. You were badly wounded.”
Sincerity? He doubted it. As the fog lifted, the ache intensified. If she found out, she’d use it as ammunition. “I’m fine.”
Her lips curved to a smile. “Faahhn,” she drawled. “I love the way you Southrons say that, but to be frank, Colonel, I don’t believe you.”
“Brigadier,” he corrected, “and I shall be returning to the field soon.” Gritting his teeth, he laid his head against the pillow and shut his eyes.
“A promotion hasn’t taught you how to admit anything, has it? Since we’re having such a delightful conversation, maybe you can sidestep another question. Who is Peopeo? The name sounds Indian.”
His temper grew short, and he glared.
Holly grinned in victory. “You’re more talkative when you’re under the weather. Wil, you never told me you had a squaw.”
He latched onto her arm, and she let out a surprised yelp. Her free hand rubbed his crotch. Though there had never been any tenderness between them, he was tempted to surrender. Anger and danger aroused him. But she wasn’t the source of his vexation, and the time had come to bury it. Wil let go of her arm. “What do you want?”
Fluffing pillows to help him breathe, she got cozy. “When you’re feeling up to moving to Richmond, I’d like to tend you.”
She did want money. If it didn’t hurt like hell to laugh, he would have snorted his fool head off. “Haven’t received your husband’s pension yet?”
Fire entered her gleaming eyes. “Your recent experience has only made you more ornery. No, I haven’t received Charles’s pension, but I shall—unlike those dishonorably discharged for siding with secessionists.”
In no mood to continue sparring, Wil gasped for breath. “You win.”
Holly opened her mouth, then closed it again. She blinked in disbelief. “You’re not the sort to surrender.”
Each breath was a struggle, and he closed his eyes. “You sound disappointed.”
“I am... a little.”
Anger had fueled the fire. Without it, the flames were doused. Not dead, sparks simmered—ready to flare. “Then I’ll make it up to you—later.” Pain hit him like a sledgehammer striking him squarely on the chest. He bit his lip to keep from crying out.
A tin cup went to his lips—water. Nearly choking, he shoved the cup away, and it clanged to the floor.
“Damn you, Wil Jackson,” she said with a furrowed brow.
She was worried. “Perhaps, we can agree to a temporary truce.”
The worry lines faded from her forehead. “A truce? Us?”
“It was only a suggestion.”
“Wil, I meant it when I said I’d tend you.”
“In exchange for...”
Her mouth widened to a grin, and she leaned closer. “Being escorted among Richmond social circles on the arm of a general is repayment enough.”
For a change, he knew she was being honest. While far and few, some qualities were in her favor. Publicly—she was well dressed and a proper lady with enticing curves that turned heads. Privately—she thought nothing of strutting around naked except for silk gartered stockings and behaving like a high-priced whore.
Appearances—he had grown weary of them. “I don’t think the arrangement would be mutually beneficial.”
With a scowl, Holly pursed her lips. “Don’t tell me a Yankee bullet has made you sentimental. You’re acting more like a lovesick schoolboy. Wil, our type wasn’t meant to fall in love.”
Lovesick? He settled back in amusement. “You are joking? Exactly who is the unfortunate lady?”
She smiled sweetly. “You’re still brooding over Amanda.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“I beg to differ. You’ve gone out of your way to seek revenge—smuggling supplies under Sam’s nose and courting her sister.”
“I’m not...” Deciding it wasn’t worth the bother, he fell silent. She wouldn’t believe him anyway.
Her grin turned knowing. “You asked for Amanda the same way as the squaw.”
The squaw. Ready to boil, he clenched a hand. “So?”
“I’ve always wondered what the source of your vexation was. Who would have guessed you were pining for an Indian wench?”
“I strongly suggest that you don’t pursue this any further.”
Her eyes widened in delight, and she pressed a hand to her breast. “So I am right.”
Wil met her gaze in warning as she twisted the deerskin cord of the Nez Perce medicine pouch between her fingers.
“I’ve heard about military men stationed in the West and their squaw concubines.”
He grasped the bedpost to help him stand, and Holly jumped back with a shriek. Pain—he welcomed it. His hands went around her throat. Pressing tighter, he’d watch her suffocate as Peopeo had.
She clawed and struck him to loosen his grip.
More pain—in his healing hand.
Tighter—she couldn’t breathe.
“Wil...”
Through waves of pain, he couldn’t locate the soft and gentle voice.
“Let her go. She wasn’t responsible for her death.”
He loosened his grip.
Holly coughed and sputtered, darting out of his reach.
He smelled Alice’s sweet scent. Thankful she had intervened, he felt her gentle touch, urging him back to bed. “How did you know?”
“You told me that you often killed those responsible on the battlefield. I’m also aware that your association with Mrs. Prescott has been... tenuous.”
As usual, she was being polite. Green eyes beamed like lanterns, breaking through the abyss of his mind. In some ways, she reminded him of Amanda. He had wooed Amanda—to no avail. No sense in dwelling on that now, since he had known the reason all along why she had chosen Prescott instead. She had glimpsed behind the mask, and now Alice had witnessed it too.