Lord? If that’s what I’m to do, I need Your help.
Hoofbeats echoed through the night. For a second he feared the intrusion would spur Hughes to act, but the rider didn’t seem to be veering their way. His shout, though, resounded through the trees. “Lincoln is shot! It just came over the wire! The president is shot!”
Hughes’s laugh slicked like oil, oozing malice and darkness. The rest of them went stock-still, even the wind dying to nothing. His teeth flashed white in the moonlight. “We’ve won. We’ve won!”
“Not yet, you haven’t.” Slade had the rifle resting against his shoulder, had Hughes’s head in his sights. He had no idea where the strength came from to lift the heavy weapon, were it not straight from the Lord. Every pulse was a new pain, but it made time slow down. Made it so clear, so very clear.
“Slade!” Marietta’s cry held the whole world, it seemed. All the love, all the hope, all the fear and pain. More, she jerked out of view.
And oh, the shifting expressions on Hughes’s shadowed face. The evil joy melting to shock and then hardening into hatred.
Slade pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, sounding, to his ears, like a second chance. A second chance for her to live, free of those chains. A second chance for the nation to rebuild itself, without the looming threat of another break. When he pulled back, he saw the bullet had found its mark. Hughes lay, unmoving, on the ground.
Slade slid down the post, the gun clattering to the stairs as its kick set up a new throb. So loud. It drowned out the cries, the footsteps, and made them nothing but echoes.
Except for hers. Her voice he heard clearly, saying his name over and over, ever louder. Then her face appeared, streaked with mud and tears, her hair flowing like a flame around her shoulders. “Slade. Slade, my love, hold on. Hold tight to me. Don’t let go.”
Her fingers encircled his. Cold but solid. Unharmed. Thank You, Jesus. Had he the strength, he would have tangled his other hand in her hair.
All he managed was a swallow. His tongue felt swollen and heavy. “You gonna wanna look away, kitten. Bleeding.” He could feel it, feel the warmth spreading. Too fast, too hot.
“No.” Her gaze latched on his, she gripped his hand tighter. “No, I want to look right here. You keep looking back, Slade. Keep looking at me.”
He blinked, barely dragging his lids open again. The words echoed through his mind. Booth had succeeded. He had shot the president.
The circle of light dimmed. “Tried. Tried to stop it all.”
Her fingers soothed over his jaw, down his neck, and rested feather light on his chest. “We can never stop it all, my love. Not in this world. We can only do our part, answer our call, and pray the Lord will heal the wounds left behind.”
Her voice caught, but her eyes stayed clear. Clear and green and bright, like life itself. She was right. There was too much evil in the world for them to fight it off single-handedly. Battles would be lost, as battles always were.
But the war didn’t have to be. Not when they found families to fight beside. He gathered all the strength he could find to strain up that inch, to catch her lips with his.
He wished, oh how he wished he could have saved them all.
And yet, he couldn’t regret choosing his family. “I love you, kitten.” He sagged down. Though his eyelids felt like lead, he kept them open just one more second. To seize one last picture of her face to take with him into eternity. “Don’t mourn for me. I’ve had enough of black and gray. You need to…bring…the color back.”
He focused on the green of her eyes until it all faded away.
Thirty-Five
Baltimore, Maryland
May 1, 1865
Marietta Hughes smoothed a hand over the green skirt of her dress and felt a twist in her stomach that never seemed very far away these days. Everywhere she turned was some reminder of all that had passed, of all that had been lost. The black crepe of mourning still covered all the windows, all the mirrors. Not just here in her parents’ home, but throughout the city. Throughout the country.
“Hurry, Marietta, or we’ll miss the train!”
“Coming, Mama.” But it took another second to convince her hand to release the fabric of her new traveling dress and clutch instead the worn maple of her childhood home’s main staircase.
When she reached the entryway, the door stood open, spring’s sweet breeze wafting in. The coaches waited, already loaded with trunks and valises. Hers, Mama’s, Barbara’s. Granddad Thad’s and Grandmama Gwyn’s. Daddy, his telegram had said, would meet them in New York.