Andrew had ridden for three days to reach Fredericksburg, Virginia, the first destination on his journey. Having eaten the last of his food ration at noon the day before, his hollow stomach felt stuck to his spine. Loud rumbles protesting hunger had accompanied him through the night. Twice he’d hidden in woods alongside the road as other riders approached, and once it had saved his life as a troop of British soldiers galloped past. Seeing the landmark for the Pembroke property, he urged Shadow to a faster pace.

Andrew cantered into Cyrus Pembroke’s yard, the full moon lighting his way along the drive. Pulling up on the reins, he slowed Shadow to a trot as they neared the house. Sweat poured from horse and man as the humid summer night closed in around them. Andrew gulped the last drops of water from his leather canteen.

Cyrus Pembroke had been a courier for Jonathon, but the British threatened him and his family when they caught wind of his sympathies. Andrew had to be careful even approaching the property lest British troops be in the area watching. Randy had instructed Andrew to arrive in dark of night, but they both agreed haste took precedence over caution if Andrew was to connect with Jonathon in the northern colonies … and get to Jenny as soon as humanly possible.

A swath of amber light fell across the porch as the front door opened. Cyrus hurried out to greet Andrew. Snatching Shadow’s reins, he stilled the horse to standing, stroking the steed’s forehead, whispering soothing words. Andrew threw his leg over the horse’s back and dismounted. When his feet hit the ground, Andrew stumbled from exhaustion and thirst. Cyrus grabbed his arm to keep him from falling.

“Thank you, sir.” Andrew rasped, his throat raw. “I come from Brentwood.”

“Go inside. Quickly.” Cyrus scrutinized the property, no doubt searching for prying eyes, before he looped Shadow’s reins over the porch railing then helped Andrew into the brick house.

Aromas of beef stew and fresh biscuits floated from the back of the house when he entered the hall. Cyrus held his arm as their boots clattered along the hardwood floors. Andrew squinted against the harshness of the candlelight, so bright after his ride under the night sky. When he entered the dining room, his vision adjusted to the glow of the lantern on the table and the small flames in the fireplace. With the warm humid night air, a small flame would keep the stew cooking but not heat the room too much. Still the heat was enough to make Andrew feel his remaining strength ebb, and he stumbled. Cyrus eased him into a chair and poured a tankard of ale, setting it before him.

A woman was ladling a hefty portion of stew onto a pewter plate. She picked up two steaming browned biscuits from a platter set on the hearth and quickly tossed them beside the meat and vegetables, shaking her hand then licking her fingers. As she set the plate before Andrew, she reached for a pitcher and poured honey over the biscuits.

Andrew stared at the food before him for a moment, too weak to lift his arm and pick up the fork. Willing his arms to move, he placed his forearms on the table, clasped the tankard and lifted it to his lips. Though it was warm, the full-bodied liquid was sweet balm to his dry throat and he gulped half the tankard.

“Easy, boy,” Cyrus said. He laid his hand on Andrew’s arm to slow his slaking. Nodding to the woman, he said, “This is my wife, Eleanor.”

Andrew set the tankard down.

“Thank you, sir. Ma’am.” He wiped his sleeve across his foamy mouth.

Eleanor smiled.

“I’ll tend to your horse while you eat.” Cyrus clomped out into the night.

Andrew jabbed the fork into a chunk of beef so tender it split into strands that soaked in the gravy. Chewing the first bite, he moaned in appreciation. He didn’t pause even when Cyrus returned. Once he had eaten enough to regain some strength and sampled enough ale to allow speech, he nodded at them

“This is a feast fit for King George.” His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. Growing up in London, this had been a common compliment paid the cook.

Cyrus scowled; Eleanor chuckled.

“A poor choice of words, son,” Cyrus said.

“Excuse me, sir. This is a feast fit for General Washington.” Despite his faux pas, he continued eating, settling into the chair, comforted in the validation of Cyrus’s sympathies.

Cyrus grunted and left the kitchen. While he was gone, Andrew finished the stew and biscuits and a second tankard of ale. Eleanor busied herself with the fire, then settled down with her embroidery. Too tired to make conversation, Andrew rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes, listening to the soft crackling of the embers and the steady poking and pulling of her embroidery needle.

Soon Cyrus returned with Andrew’s saddlebags.

“You have something for me?” His rough voice signaled impatience … and fear. “I don’t want the British arriving to find a courier possessing information for the Sons of Liberty in my home.”

“Yes.”

Cyrus slung the saddlebags on the table, and Andrew unlaced the leather straps and reached inside, slipping out a parchment folded in thirds. A red seal impressed with a “B” secured it. He slid it across the table.

Cyrus didn’t touch it; he simply stared at the ivory paper, bold against the deep walnut table. He looked up at Andrew.

“The British have been here.” Cyrus’s voice was hollow against the muggy air.

“I know.”

A crackling broke the silence as a log collapsed into the embers. Eleanor had ceased the movement of her fingers against her linen sampler. She did not look up but sat in rigid expectation.

Cyrus inched his hand along the table, tapping his finger on the corner of the letter. Breathing deeply, he tugged it back to sit before him. Gently, he lifted the missive, slid a knife under the seal, and unfolded the letter.

His wife stood and left the room.

He retrieved a piece of cowhide from a cupboard, laying it flat atop the letter. Small rectangular holes were scattered through the leather. Cyrus adjusted it, exactly matching the corners to the parchment. As he read the revealed message, he nodded. When he finished, he stared into the fire. Emotions played over his face—one minute indecision, the next fury, and finally determination. He rose and paced the room.

“You will need to start early in the morning …”

“No, I will leave tonight. I must get to—”

“You will be no good to anyone if you ride yourself to death.”

“I need to get to Jenny—she’ll arrive in New York before I can get there.”

Cyrus turned, his face a mask of rage.

“Do you put your trivial desire to see a girl before the cause of freedom?” He pounded the table, rattling the pewter plate. “Lad, what we are about is more important than your small heartache. Grow up, boy.” He lowered his voice and resumed his pacing. “Besides, I must compose the instructions to be delivered to your next stop.”

“But, sir, I must …”

“You will sleep tonight to regain your strength, and at dawn you will set off. The ride will be as long as today’s. If you don’t consider your own health, think of your horse’s. Neither of you is good to us dead. Let the girl go, lad; there’ll be plenty more in your life.”

That’s where you are wrong. Jenny is my life.

The Destiny lay low in the water, cannon loading her down more than when she had simply been a merchant ship. Now that the nor’easter had passed and repairs had been made, all attention was once again on General Howe’s armada sailing past them only miles away. Apprehension was heavy in the air as they pulled farther out to sea, every crewman stealing glimpses toward the west.

Please, don’t delay our journey any more. How would she find Father when she arrived in New York? Would she arrive in time to help him?

And now there was this disquiet she sensed from Jonathon and the crew. He’d explained their need to sail out into the Atlantic to avoid a confrontation with the British—a confrontation they surely would lose. She didn’t know how much more she could bear.

She pulled herself up. She must not let these feelings defeat her. She would face whatever came in New York, help Father regain his health. She could do this. She must.

“How are your hands healing, Miss Sutton?”

She turned to look into the kind face of Mr. Gates. Extending her hands palms up, she smiled.

“Your magic healing salve seems to have sped up my recovery, Mr. Gates.”

Taking her hands, he examined them. In the days since the storm, they had healed well. While her skin was still rough and reddened from the blisters, no signs of infection were evident. “Excellent. We should arrive in a safe harbor in due time. I look forward to seeing you safely to our friends who will take you to your father.”

Jenny’s stomach tightened. She didn’t know what to expect, and that made her more uneasy than anything. She liked order and control, and she had neither right now. She nodded.

Mr. Gates smiled at her, still holding her hands. Could he feel her trembling? Squeezing her hands, he winked. “All will be well.”

Another promise made. Could it be kept?

Rough hands shook Andrew awake.

“C’mon, son.”

Andrew lurched up, pawing his bed for his pistol. Looking around, he didn’t recognize the room he’d slept in, then he spotted Cyrus. The man shook his shoulder, urgency in his expression.

“You must leave now—before dawn.”

Andrew nodded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Yawning, he stood and recovered his breeches and boots, donning them quickly. He tucked in his shirt as he followed Cyrus downstairs. Cyrus continued out the door and Andrew entered the dining room, its door open to the kitchen house out back. He rubbed his head trying to clear his sleep-muddled mind.

Eleanor packed biscuits and fruit into a burlap sack. When she finished, she handed it to him with a mug. Andrew blew across the steaming black coffee, its smell bringing him to full awareness. As he sat down, he nodded his thanks, then tucked the sack into his saddlebag. She handed him a warm biscuit drizzled with honey. The bun was soft and warm in his mouth, the honey sweet on his tongue, dripping, so he licked his fingers after he gobbled it down. Chuckling, Eleanor wiped his hands with a damp linen cloth.

“Take care, Andrew. Godspeed.”

He nodded. He could have used another four hours of sleep. Stiffness claimed his back and shoulders, and his legs were still rubbery from yesterday’s ride. Yawning, he stretched his arms above his head then scratched his belly. Even another two hours of sleep would have helped.

Cyrus returned, urgency in every movement. Handing a letter to Andrew, he patted the younger man’s arm. His eyes were bloodshot; he’d probably been up all night preparing this document. On another sheet was a map showing the location of Andrew’s next stop. It would be another hard day’s ride. Andrew massaged his lower back and buttocks, dreading another day in the saddle—until he thought of Jenny. He focused, listening carefully to the instructions Cyrus gave him.

Shadow snorted a greeting, groomed and fresh for another day’s ride. Mounting, Andrew leaned down to shake Cyrus’s hand, but he stiffened at the sound of hoofbeats growing closer.

“Ride, Andrew.” He pointed toward the woods. “That way. You will not be able to make it back along the drive. Hurry.”

“But, sir …” How could he leave Cyrus and Eleanor to face down British soldiers alone?

“Hurry, son.”

Pounding hooves sounded just around the curve of the drive. Cyrus slapped Shadow’s flanks and Andrew sped toward the trees. Small branches stung as they slapped his face. He crouched low in the saddle, trusting Shadow to find a path through the woods. Suddenly, a musket blast … and Eleanor’s shrill keening.